


evanescent

by Ezfa



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars: Episode VIII – The Last Jedi
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Anxiety, Beauty and the Beast AU, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Childhood Friends, Childhood friends to enemies to lovers, Emotional Turmoil, F/M, Forbidden Love, Freeform, Lima Syndrome, Skeletons In The Closet, Slow Build, Soulmate AU, Stockholm Syndrome, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, ben solo's POV, childhood neglect, fairytale AU, fuck me up tho, romance comes way later on, self love, slowburn as fuck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2019-04-08 03:19:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14096031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ezfa/pseuds/Ezfa
Summary: Once upon a time, there was a lonely little Prince. He lived in a cursed Kingdom, scorned by his servants and ignored by his own father, The King. But on the night of his tenth birthday, his life changes forever when he hears the cry of a newborn baby...( A boy becomes a man by a thorned coronet and crucifixion in his very own throne. He is the horror legend told to children at the peak of every moonlight; but for the little phantom girl with grubby hands and sandy cheeks and fascinated sunken eyes, he seems to be made of moondust and glitter and promises fulfilled.This is a tale told through increments and passages of time... )aka; the Soulmate-AU-and-Beauty-and-The-Beast-AU-mish-mash that no one really wanted#reylo #slowburn #freeform





	1. (I) death comes in the form of a lullaby

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Otherwise_Uncolonized](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Otherwise_Uncolonized/gifts), [eek_a_tron](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eek_a_tron/gifts), [Like_A_Dove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Like_A_Dove/gifts).



> ( aesthetic and book cover: https://ezfa.tumblr.com/post/172251275035/e-v-a-n-e-s-c-e-n-t-a-reylo-fanfiction )
> 
> So...
> 
> I fucked up. I told myself I would wait until I had this whole thing figured out, and for a while I actually did. But because of my ever so complicatedly creative mind (as in, my THIRST for wanting to make more and more AND MORE emotional development and character growth), this story was split into TWO (technically, THREE) stories and thus, I am back to square one.
> 
> What does this mean? It means I have no idea where this is going to go; I had a plan, and the plan went somewhere else, and is now the outline for yet ANOTHER story in the back of my head. So this is going to be as freeform as it can get; don't take me TOO seriously though, I do have AN IDEA where this may or may not go. I am not THAT lost.
> 
> So welp, here I go; take a seat ladies and gents. Get ready for angst and LOTS of it. And very very verrryyyy slowburn reylo. And I mean REALLY slowburn.
> 
> Big shout to @otherwise uncolonized, @eek-a-tron and @Like_A_Dove; specifically for Burn The Boats, [we could plant a house, we could build a tree], and A Shadow's Little Light; those fics. Read them. Yuss.
> 
> Please let me know what you think, if ya hate it, if ya love it, if ya don't care; whatever!   
> Fic promo: https://ezfa.tumblr.com/post/173964053015/evanescent-masterpost-a-reylo-fanfiction  
> Bother me on Ezfa @ tumblr♥

**A/N:** _Lore! Inaccurate historical references! Narration! Birth! Tragedy! Angst! Confusion! Yay!_

**( &. )**

_Some princes aren't borne royal leaders; sometimes, they are yanked from the roots of their hair, raked through mud and crucified on their own very throne before they can even walk. This is how little boys are made into men._

_Some princes don't become Kings; they become merciless tyrants instead._

_Because only monsters can make proper rulers._

**ໟ** **.~( PART i )~.** **ໟ  
**_**001\. death comes in the form of a lullaby**_

 **LIKE THE BEGINNINGS** of a plague thundered by God Almighty himself, the moment Han Solo's son was brought into the world, whispers of an omen reborn was deemed upon the already decaying Kingdom of  _Erste Bestellung*_. Vilification among the chambers of the crumbling castle were not spared from the small bundle that barely wailed, thought for sure to perish from his lack of breath and movement. Instead, vituperating words were used to  _fuel_ the already existing premonition that Bestellung was doomed since the fall of His Late Majesty, King Vader's nearly fifty year reign. Yet as fate would have it, when first in line Prince Luke Himmelsläufer* was exiled on account of the belief that he 'drank from the Devil's personalized goblet' and went mad because of the fact, it had been Princess Leia Himmelsläufer left to step up to her duty as Queen and wipe out the mess her father left behind. The horror borne from the scandal of her  _tainting_ the royal bloodline with a thief was not delivered in malice, as the couple radiated  _love_ from their union. They had not married with her pure virtue intact, or so the whispers went at the sight of her protruding belly during the wedding ceremony.

Leia had not even ruled but a week as Queen, and the life was sucked dry from her impassioned eyes loyally plastered on her husband's; a wordless plea, a sonnet of love and heartbreak of not being able to embrace her newborn were all trapped in her gaze before the life in her slowly passed. She was hemorrhaging profusely and she had already lost too much blood. It was over before Han could even blink; and his hand had lingered on hers for far too long before he forced himself to let go. Instead, he was left with a barely living pasty  _creature_ that was nothing more than a sickly blob through burning moistened eyes. The infant was making an effort to scream, and  _oh he was_ ** _trying_** _—_ but what was supposed to be piercing wails bursting through those small lungs were nothing more than haggard dry heaves, as if the very air around him was tainted, poisonous, and in a fit of panic, Han mentally forced himself through the fresh wound of just  _having lost his_ ** _wife_** _not more than three seconds ago,_ eyes hardening and throat encasing in of itself as he looked feverishly to all the midwives and with all the authority he  _hadn't_ possessed in a single cell of his royal-less bloodline, his tone echoed through the walls of the bedroom:

"Here now! Why are you all standing about and gawking?!  _Save my boy!_ "

A crucial detail had escaped from his thoughts; this was a premature birthing. Leia hadn't been due in nearly six weeks and with a foreboding sense to his own mental demise, the man realized he was about to witness two consecutive deaths spanning seconds from each other. He couldn't fathom the sheer concept, and he nearly crushed his own soul by refusing to let grief rattle his bones; determination pumped through instead.

"Why is he not  _breathing_ _properly_ _?!_ " In his renowned conviction, he also realized that these people were probably fearing this; not outwardly, and perhaps not even intentionally, but considering the truly last hope that was to  _annihilate_  their Late Royal Majesty's legacy had just passed  _and_ that Han was nothing more than a dirty thief that held no real authority or knowledge on their land's politics, the inevitable fact that the very last of the royal blood was a sickly little thing had stapled their feet to the floor in a blind panic. With all and any trace of royal blood  _gone_ , what did this mean for Erste Bestellung? It was an omen that weighed on everyone's shoulders.

Despite all that, the Han's gaze was momentarily stopped at the fact that his  _son_  had  _raven_ colored locks. Leia would have gushed at her son having black curls. His heart nearly crushed his rib cage in heavy grief at the sight.

The midwife held the bundled baby like a filthy animal; at arm's length and with shaking knees. Her eyes were wide and wet. "Y-y-your M-Majesty… he's much too  _weak_ ," she looked at the doctor for assurance, who didn't spare a glance, save for the  _fascinating_ floor beneath them as he wrung his hands until they were well and swollen. "His lungs are t-too— oh  _Lord_ , he's much too  _small_  and delicate…!" She was young and still too inexperienced in her profession, and without so much as a peep from the others, it was no wonder she resorted to a being blubbery mess; too caught up on the possibility that today was a  _damned_ day, and with The Queen being no more than just a few feet away, the new stench of death lingered on her nostrils and seeped through her mind. Not surprisingly, she wept, wording all the thoughts that everyone had on their minds. "Oh,  _Dear Lord,_ what does this  _mean?!_ Oh,  _Heavens_ p-please have  **mercy** upon our souls, did our former  _Führer_ not bring enough  _devastation_ o-onto us? When will it all cease?!"

Han was literally about to strike the girl, had she not been carrying his child, for his patience had no room for her wailing cries; his heart clenched at every question, every  _ludicrous_ incoherent ramble that did nothing save to twist his palpating heart and send it at the bottom pit of his stomach. His wife, whom had just been alive  _minutes_ ago, seemed to slumber like a resting angel. He didn't want to look at her, didn't even want to  _breathe_ around her in some self-delusion that he was tainting her even more so than the very fresh blood and fluid staining her garments.

But thankfully, the Doctor, snapping out his pitiful reverie at the loss of Her Majesty, saved him from uttering a single word. " _Enough_ hysterics, girl. Give him here now, he must be wiped clean; he needs sustenance from his mother,  _immediately_." This petrified Han, for not only the thought of his baby feeding off his dead mother had disturbed him immensely, it also gave him the impression that the boy would choke. At his widened eyes, the older man shook his head. "Her… Late Majesty is still equipped with the boy's feeding. He's weak, Sire, but he is not helpless; it's wise to not deprive him of the necessary nutrients, and take advantage of it… while we can. The midwives will remove him at half-minute intervals so that they can regulate his breathing, and then he shall be placed in an isolette should he, Heaven forbid, get any weaker."

Han was only able to give a shaky breath as he covered the entirety of his mouth with a trembling hand, and nodded.

"Though perhaps now is a good time as any, your Majesty; what have you chosen as a name?"

With an arrow through his heart and sweat practically dripping from his face, Han fought to not buckle his knees and pass out. Leia had always wanted her own children to bear her husband's last name; Himmelsläufer was a legacy they wanted to be rid of they moment they consummated their relationship. The name that Leia had chosen when they found out they were expecting burned in the back of his throat like coal. Thunder roared outside and rain started to pour.

Crystal drops splattered against the floor near his feet; his voice came out a ragged, broken whisper: "Ben Solo… His name shall be  _Ben Solo_..."

Fearing the near-animosity from those in his surroundings, sensing their passion in their heartbreak, and their crumbling hope, The King was nearly crushed from the ferocity of his determination to protect his one and only child, and came to a startling decision that would unbeknownst to the outside world for many years to come; The Young Prince would remain hidden, forbidden to stray past the Kingdom's walls. The doctor had insisted to the King that it was highly possible that he was not to live past the age of seven, and so the desperate measures weren't necessary. Until he was proven wrong when the boy lived a day past his seventh birthday. Then two. Then a week. And then three years after his estimated year of death.

And so, the Young Prince's existence was hidden beneath Erste Bestellung's castle walls, rumored to have been a phantom of Leia's Himmelsläufer babe's 'failed birth'. Everyone within the Kingdom's interior knew the truth.

Everyone, except for the very Prince himself.

**( &. )**

**(*)** **Erste Bestellung:** 'First Order' in German.

 **(*)** **Himmelsläufer:** 'Sky Walker' in German.


	2. (I) cracked bones and wicked souls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fic promo: https://ezfa.tumblr.com/post/173964053015/evanescent-masterpost-a-reylo-fanfiction  
> Bother me on Ezfa @ tumblr

**A/N:** _Kiddie Ben! Baby Rey! Killer nannies! One sided conversations! Ghost cribs! Woot!_

**( &. )**

**ໟ** **.~( PART I )~.** **ໟ  
**_**002\. cracked bones and wicked souls**_

 **THE FIRST TIME** it happens, he's merely a small child, clueless about his surroundings and with a bitterness brought upon by a warped upbringing stemming from loneliness and shut windows. On the nightbefore his tenth birthday, his governess, Guinevere Gidrog, enters his chambers. Yet, the title  _Warden_ seems more befitting for her than  _Governess_ ; she wastes no time, "You don't have your mask on, prince."  _For your health and protection_ is always his governess' answer when Ben once inquired about his required attire. Ben can't help but nearly flinch at her callous and reprimanding tone. Rarely does she ever express such exasperation, and it befuddles Ben so much as it does make him feel guilty. "You're old enough that I needn't remind you to  _put it on_  daily. You aren't a small thing and you have all your limbs working and intact. You haven't even dressed yourself today. Have you done absolutely  _nothing?_ " He's always had a picky palate and his stomach upsets easily at most foods; he rashes easily at mostly any metal, and burns much too easily in harsh light. Having all this in mind, Gidrog becomes tremendously cross and worried that he will ruin his three week streak of being ill-free. When he doesn't respond, she shakes her head and throws an object beside him. She is one of the very few, if any, that is allowed to see him without his cloak and plague mask; she stares impassively at the scraggly boy in his bed until he speaks.

"…What  _is_  this?" Though his voice has the tone of a mouse, he asks this with a disdain fitting to someone twice his own age; of the very few times he chose to talk and be expressive, it's never like a  _normal_ child. Ben was not a child that progressed in his speech like a child  _should_ have had _;_ he hadn't started making sounds or so much gurgle or coo, remaining quiet as a mouse until he was three years old. After which, he had spoken with difficulty, stuttering for nearly a year.

"It's a premature birthday gift, Young Prince; from His Sire."

Ben recalls  _maybe_ seeing someone who's  _supposed_ to be the man named  _Han Solo,_ His Royal Majesty, The King; but Ben had never saw too much beneath the plague mask he was to wear outside his bed chambers. He had only spoken to his father  _once;_  it had been a  _fierce_ and  _resounding_ " **No!"** when the King had attempted to touch him gently on the shoulder.

The King never tried to bear physical contact with his son since then.

When he asked as to why his father didn't visit him often, his governess gave him a very peculiar, pointed gaze, and said nothing. Those are one of the rarest times, of hardly any to begin with, where the boy feels truly unsettled around her.

From the bits of information he has heard from beneath the floorboards and through the kingdom's walls, Ben believes that he was never even supposed to be born.  _—an_ _ **omen**_ _thanks to the atrocities our previous_ _ **Fuhrer**_ _has done is what he is!_ Only when he begun hearing on how  _ugly he must be!_ because of his  _surely_ _gangling_ _limbs and lack of exposure to the direct sunlight_ did the boy also realize he doesn't know what he looks like himself beneath the mask and cloak. There are indeed mirrors and reflective surfaces, but there isn't a moment's time where he isn't wearing the mask; it's always on first thing in the morning and the last thing he took off when it was bed time. The boy has no concept of vanity, power or manners in the least; his vocabulary falls flat and his understanding is deprived thanks to the limited amount of social interaction. And so when when Ben asked her if it was true he was  _ugly_ , the governess had demanded to know where he learned that  _bloody talk_ from. When he revealed the ones responsible, of the decrepit talk, the morning after he never saw the same servants again

He says nothing, and his eyes give nothing; yet, where his lack of response and blank expressions put off nearly anyone else, Gidrog matched his social ineptitude with her own, never faltering from the boy's intense blank stares and silence.

Perhaps that's why Ben 'likes' her, in a sense.

The pinnacle of realization can be captured at the very next second; his thumb grazes the thread of the dice he holds with an aggression that seems more befitting like he's wanting to  _decapitat_ _e_ itrather than give it affection. "...he isn't coming..." he says in realization, voice hollow and absolutely tight.

Her words are callous, but are no less than the reality. "Your Majesty is off attending his duties, my Prince. He has no time for extracurricular activities." Gidrog is not an ideally painted caregiver; the maids of the very household ran away in sheer panic at the sight of her.  _Hardly a woman, a_ _ **beast**_ _more like it!—_ they would say. Her short blonde tresses are a pseudo-halo clearly used to disguise her appeal to  _Woden,_ and her fierce blue eyes have the intensity of  _Hel_. The woman came from a grueling home that spared no weakness; His Royal Majesty entrusted this woman with not only Ben's life, but also on providing him with  _'indolent instructions on propriety and_ _education',_ so he had phrased it.

She cares not for the delicate sentimentality that children posses, and perhaps His Majesty  _knew_ this, because she is one of the very few persons that Ben would actually speak to and actively respond to without flying into a fine passion or scrunch his sickly face into an ugly frown to literally everything she'd say. Where she is cold and lacks the traditional characteristics a  _normal_ nanny should posses, like  _sympathy_  or a maternal instinct to kiss his scraped elbows, she instead fulfills in conversing with the young boy like an older cousin would for  _more_ than just a minute or two, which cannot be said about His Sire. That, and along with the occasional bloody story or  _five_ that Ben always likes to hear, which is a deal that benefits them both.

He says nothing, eyes lost on the pair of golden dice in his hands.

"It's only the truth, my prince; you're turning ten soon, in less than a few hours, even, and you're much too grown to be pining for His Majesty."

Social detachment and mannerisms that befit an old surly man Ben may have; but he's still very much a  _child,_ and like any child, he quickly changes the subject when he knows he isn't getting his way. "… toys are useless," he mumbles; his eyes flicker to hers for a second, a sign that he is agitated. Even a  _'_ _this is_ _for girls'_ or a  _'I want a sword instead'_ is more befitting to a young man; he holds all his toys like foreign artifacts, never staring at them too long before his brown eyes lose interest and then turn glossy with sheer disinterest.

"His Majesty would know your opinions if only you wrote to him, my prince. You know he doesn't spend too much time within the castle walls." she says, undeterred by his mannerisms. "He assumes you must be bored in here with nothing to do since, based on thereports I have recorded to him, you never want to attend your tutoring sessions like you  _should_ be doing; like you could have done today had you not been waiting for your  _governess._ " The bit of sarcasm is not lost on the boy, but he doesn't quite understand the notion and — _Ah,_  there goes the ends of his mouth tugging into a  _deep_  scornful expression that does nothing for his already unappealing, sour face. Ben wants to know  _why_ Gidrog has told the king this. "Do you suppose your father to be a mind reader?"

That one does it. His little face, if it's even possible, twists even more surly; his inflated lips thin and his beady eyes squint as if he's smelled something atrocious. It's an expression that somehow pronounces his ears which are already too big, and it ages him to a seventy year old dwarf. With all his might, which isn't considerably plentiful in the least, he hurls the golden dice like it's wretched. It only goes so far, barely reaching the end of his feet on the bed. His words are already lodged in the back of his throat, and they evaporate at the rise of his tantrum. He is done speaking for tonight.

"Quite. If nothing else, young prince. I bid you goodnight. Do remember to put your mask and cloak from now on,  _by yourself_  if you please. We don't want you becoming ill…  _again._ " With no other words or commands given to her by the young boy, Gidrog promptly leaves his bedroom quarters.

Receiving news that his already-mostly-absent father is  _not_ coming to at least visit him for his  _birthday,_ and instead had left him only with a pair of golden, worn out diceis offensive to him. His stomach knots and twists with something akin to apprehension, even if he doesn't realize it. In a constant state of unleashing his pent up emotions takes a physical toll on him, even at a young age; one second he wants to fly into a passion, yet he has discovered from experience that his  _aftercare_ following the act is absolute misery. His pale chest heaves from beneath his thin cotton sleepwear and for a split second, he feels a scream wanting to erupt from his throat. He doesn't want to  _exist._ A child sheltered as he is doesn't know the weight of  _suicide_ or  _wanting to die_ , but he does know that right now, he just doesn't want to  _be._

In the midst of his own mix of a panic attack and tantrum, he manages to fall asleep. Only a few hours later, however, sparks of sunlightexplode and dance behind the sight of his closed eyelids. Endless yellow and red stars scatter like fireflies, and  _somewhere_  in the deep corridors of his mind, he  _hears_ something, and it jolts him awake.  _Thunder._  Tendrils of black curls stick to his face, and the cloth of his shirt cling to his damp back; it takes him a second to realize that the only unruly guttural sound is from his own throat. In the darkness, his head swerves around, beady eyes trying to makeshift the dark shadows and figures around him into a cohesive scenery.

In his blind panic, Ben has thrown his covers off and stands haggardly in the middle of his chamber, low and crouched; disoriented with fight or flight instincts, he heaves himself against the wall beside his door. His heart rate doesn't go down in the slightest, and he stands still. Sweat trickles down the bridge of his nose and temples, lips quivering and teeth chattering.

There is no sound. Even with the curtains pulled, there's light granted from the full moon; it unnerves him. The unfamiliar panic slowly dissipates until he lets out more shallow breaths than truly necessary, and with more effort than a child should give, he clutches the elaborate door knob to prevent himself from slumping down all the way. His gaze focuses on the bright light that lays beyond his curtains. He realizes it's midnight. He has just turned ten years old. The thought resonates with him until all he can hear is Gidrog's words echoing in the interior of his mind; y _ou're much too grown to be pining for His Majesty._ Much too old for The King to take note of his presence. He still hasn't even officially met his own father. He has been alone for ten years now. But then, a thought possesses him, distracting him from his self destructive thoughts;

how… how is that he's heard  _thunder…_  yet, it isn't even  _raining…_?

— _!—_ A shriek pierces through his ears, so loud and perforating that he hauls his head back from the shock and manages to slam it against the crack of the door. It doesn't stop; it's a horrible sound, something he's never heard of before, and Ben's heart roars to life once more. It's getting  _louder;_  a  _horrible_ wail. His shaking doesn't stop, but in his reawakened panic, he grabs the door knob and hurls the heavy door open, displaying a strength he hadn't realized he had.

And he  _runs_.

Never having been exposed to the corridors of his own castle  _without_ his cloak and mask, he becomes lost quickly; but the consequences are of little importance to him. He continues running blindly in the dark, and his breath shallows more and more. But the wailing sound and thunder booming only gets louder,  _closer_ as if it's  _following_ him. He trips on his own foot, and his little body is catapulted easily through the air like the very same dice he threw on his bed.

"G-Guin—nngh!"  _—pant—_  "h—helpppp—" _—wheeze—_  "anyONE!"

His pathetic, low volumed cries for help remain unheard, but Ben drags his own weight with his elbows, scurrying and raking his body against the carpeted floors, having no strength to stand on his own two legs. "Make it  _STOP!"_ His forearms land on his ears as he attempts to block the horrible shriek. "I said  _STOP IT! STOP!"_ His unused voice is strained and already, his throat feels swollen from the sheer effort alone. Then something in the air shifts. It's a low  _hum_ ringing in his ears, until the tone lowers, until it seems he's  _deaf,_ followed by a whispering  _pop_. Everything goes silent, still, until he can only hear his own breaths.

" _Oh by_ _ **God…**_ _Mother…_ _ **Mother Superior!**_ _Look! —_ _ **Look!**_ _A child!_ "

Ben pauses, eyes widen; for that voice is not his own. He looks up.

Yet, there is no one.

The crying stops.

 _pit-pat pit-pat pit-pat._ Rain.

Running footsteps.

' _...b-b..but **how**?' _ His eyes flash wildly around him in the dark; he's indoors, everything is  **dry** and  **black** ; he can only faintly make out the outlines of the hallway and doors. Yet… yet how can he…  _hear **rain?!**_ Like it's surroundinghim, as if he's in the  _middle_ of it.

" _Get her out of the rain Agnes! Quickly now, **quickly!** "_

" _This should be a crime; leaving a newborn out in the rain at the foot of God's doors. Our shoulders cannot be **burdened—** "_

" _Enough Agnes! I will not have such **blasphemy** being spoken in the presence of our Lord. Get the poor thing a bottle!"_

The voices are echoing too much, distant and not all there; Ben sees nothing, but he hears it all the same, and he stares blankly ahead, trying to find the source.

" _Dry her now; poor thing. She doesn't look a minute old —she was just born. She isn't even cleaned properly."_

More voices, but Ben can't make out the rest of the conversation. He squints again, even in the darkness… and a shadowed bunch lies ahead. It wasn't there before, and he lays perfectly still, tilting his head. It moves, and against his own fear, his own judgement, the boy is curious, and he shakily hoists himself up and makes his way toward it, until he's beside the form, revealed to be a basket. There's a bundle inside; a small face wrapped in dirty, bloody pink cloth.

It's…. it's a baby.

He's never seen a  _baby_ before. His breath hitches, and he jerks instinctively when the thing opens  _her_ eyes; fierce and so  _alive,_ staring at him boldly. Ben doesn't comprehend, doesn't know what all this means; but he is the first thing that this child has seen. Like literally  _anyone_ else he has ever encountered, he fully expects cowardice;  _anything_ but it staring  _back_ at him. He becomes fully aware and suddenly  _self-conscious_ at the fact that he has  _nothing_ covering his face. Adrenaline is still pumping through his veins, but he still manages to tilt his head, unsure.

She has  _hazel_ eyes; the corners of her lips lift, and she breathes a little sigh.

" _This was attached to the basket, Mother Superior."_

He jerks back, having been too hypnotized by the infant; but again, there is no body attached to those voices.

" _Rey. It simply says Rey."_

Rey, he thinks;  _Rey._ Is that its'….  _her_ name? What does that—

The sound of paper crumpling next to his ear makes him flinch.

" _By God's will; when will this **madness** end? Abandoning their own defenceless newborns; all alone… helpless."_

— _Alone._

Ben gulps and he lifts a trembling hand to wipe his salivation from his chin, remnants of his incoherent screaming. Yet, his hand is already wet with cold  _raindrops._ A breeze passes through his neck and when he looks to where the basket is… to where  _Rey_ is...

—she's  _gone_.

" _Young **Prince**_!" Ben jumps at the abrupt voice, only for his heart to practically stop at the sight of Gidrog, hands clenched at her sides. She looks like she's about to behead him with simply the ice in her eyes that penetrates his mental defences. "What  _madness_ is this?! Why are you  _out_ of your room?  _What is going on?!"_

"I—I…. t-there was a-a..."

The governess looks at him like he's sprouted a second head, for not once since the boy was  _five_ , has Gidrog seen Ben  _stutter,_ or have such a panicked look to his eyes. She raises a brow, for once, completely and utterly out of anything cohesive to say for a couple of moments. "Here now; stand up straight, child,  _calm thyself."_ Ben does so, shakily and pathetically; a miserable sight to her vision as he sniffles and trembles. It has her shaken; for what has happened to the boy that has him in the Devil's grip?  _Stuttering again?_  "Cease the sniffling; it is _beneath_ you, do you understand me?" She lets out a disgruntled exhale, not at all pleased with having to settle onto one knee to face him; it's the most motherly gesture she's come close to ever doing, more so out of sheer desperation to  _calm_ the boy and find the root of this problem. He's sickly enough as it is; if he were to go  _mad_ , it wouldn't bode good news for His Sire. "Young Prince, look at me — _Ben, look at_ _ **me**_ _._ " She says, this time forcefully searching his eyes and drawing them to her own. "Speak  _up_ child; you have heaving lungs,  _use them_.  _Breathe_ and push your shoulders back, chin up and head focused. What ails you?"

The mention of his name snaps him to attention, and the boy's lip trembles as his haggard whisper tumbles over. "There was _…_  I had to  _run_ beca-because  _something_ was c-chasing me!"

Nothing of what he's saying makes sense, and Gidrog has no idea what wretched spell has him acting in such a way.

His governess's blank expression is not lost on the boy, and so he feels even more desperate, even more misunderstood and absolutely  _helpless_. His chest heaves in panic, his throat constricting further in of itself as he practically foams at the mouth from his clumsy tongue's inability to form words. His bony and small finger points to the spot beside their forms, as if he could will the small bundle from that alone. "...r-right there!  _Right there!_ " he wails, wanting to tear his  _hair_ out.

She grunts, hauling herself back up, shoulders squared and hands tied to her hips behind her. Panic seizes him at the sight, because he's being  _overlooked_ and  _ignored_ and she's  _not listening_ — Until she turns behind her to look at him; "Come along; I'll escort you back to your quarters. I give you my solemn oath that if we hear anything out of the ordinary, I will smite them and gift you the severed head as a birthday present."

By the time she has delivered such a curt response, Ben sees that she's already several strides ahead; she doesn't offer Ben a hand or a smile, but relief passes over him at Gidrog's reassurance. He trots behind the tall, scary woman like a gangly duckling. He looks behind him, and finds that he has no desire to mention the pink bundle; he doesn't like the thought of her pointing a sword at the thing.… at  _Rey_. But the boy trusts her otherwise, and so he is more then reassured at her protection after such an incident, preferring not to question the bizarre incident that just took place. He vaguely wonders if she will tell his father, but young Ben finds that he doesn't want his father to know. For a boy that has been secluded his whole life, coddled with materialistic needs and bare friendly contact, the prospect of such a concept fills him with  _excitement_. This is  _his_ secret, a thing to call his own; and so, in almost an instantaneous moment, his trepidation turns into a childish anticipation.

When they enter his room, Gidrog doesn't lift a finger to tuck him in bed or pat his head; she waits patiently for him to settle in himself, more relief than tension in the air that struck moments ago, and because of that, neither of them are hesitant in their movements, however slight. "Guinevere..." Ben mousy voice is so easy to miss, and she almost does; there is a wash of calm over the boy's face now; almost as if he's….  _happy…_. No,  _content_  more than anything, and she wonders if indeed the boy is mad.  _Insane_ even. Like Lord Vader was rumored to have been during his dark reign. A shadows passes over her features at such a thought. "I was wondering..."

Gidrog nods her head, precise and poised; just like the rest of her. "Your Highness shouldn't worry about apparitions or monsters in the closet; I'm never too far for to be fetched, should there be a repeat of tonight."

"It's… it's not that..."

She blinks in confusion, peering down at him through narrowed eyes. He looks least of all concerned of… whatever transpired before she arrived; the whites of his knuckles are prominent, clutching the sheets cocooning his form with a vice grip that makes her wonder  _just how much more the royal doctor has gotten wrong about this boy—_ "… Yes? Speak up, Young Prince. Do not mumble." He inhales sharply, calling in all his miserable, bird-like strength to practically hurl the question; but not because he's  _embarrassed_ or  _ashamed_ , it's because he can't contain his  _excitement_ , she realizes with befuddled realization. His brown eyes are  _wide_ and  _by the lord, he truly is a child._ She nearly takes a step back from the onslaught of his child-like wonder.

"Where do babies come from?"

 **(** **&. ** **)**

Rey appears to him again a few weeks later.

Ben  _almost_ screams out in terror; he  _almost_ cries out for Gidrog; he  _almost_ runs away again.  _Almost almost almost—_ that is until he realizes it's the very same bundle that appeared to him before, and from that point, he only remains frozen to his spot on the bed. Ben still doesn't know much about babies, or, at all, really; but, looking closer now, forcing himself to stand, albeit shakily, and wander over to the ghost crib that has manifested out of nowhere, even he realizes that they are helpless,  _soft-looking,_ little things. His mind wanders to the very same words that Gidrog chastised him with; is this what she meant when she said he wasn't  _helpless?_  His footsteps are light, non-existent and could rival something less than a mouse's; his head turns to either side of him, as if he's being watched and as if he isn't in the solidarity of his own chambers, and continues on his mission to peer over the wooden crib. His innocent mind is much too wrapped in naive stardust and wonder to really question the discrepancies that have taken place in front of him in these two instances. Too full of hope, too full of something  _beyond him,_ and it makes him feel  _important_ somehow.

He has to stand on his toes to get a better look at her; he has to squint just a bit more than last time, not at all hindered by the  _fear_ or the  _panic_ that ran its' course through his weak veins as he ran through the halls. This time, feeling more  _emboldened_ and more confident in his discoveries, in his own  _secrets_ , Ben is able to appreciate the view on the small, fleshy thing. She doesn't smell unpleasant, but it's a scent he is unfamiliar with nonetheless; tentatively, almost  _shyly_ , he peers closer, trying to take in all of Rey's features; she's  _tiny_ , with soft, wrinkly skin and delicate lids and mouth; there is a flush of red on her cheeks and her nose. Her hair is smooth and  _new_ and chestnut brown. He wrinkles his nose, furrowing his brow into a bemused frown at her soft breathing, finding himself wanting to see the color her eyes again. He wrings his gloved hands, itching all too suddenly; slowly, he brings a finger beside her cheek, stopping just an inch or so in sheer anticipation, in near  _fright_ when she hitches a breath mid-snore.

Ben pokes her cheek; once. Twice. Softly and barely there, a feather's touch. He nearly wrenches his arm when she stirs, and his heartbeat speeds up once more, nearly choking on his own spit. Her small arms rove from under the blanket, as if trying to break free; she lets out a gurgle, and Ben nearly forgets to breathe. But she falls still once again, and a few beats afterwards, he is able to relax. "...You move a lot," his voice is a mere whisper to seemingly no one in particular, and the small boy isn't sure if babies can even understand words, but he wants her to react anyway. He is fascinated by the flutter of her lashes and how they fan out over her soft cheeks. "Did they leave you by yourself again?" He doesn't like the thought; for if he could barely run from danger, how would she escape if something were to happen? Ben doesn't like that ugly thought, and he almost panics again.

He freezes when her eyes open; no less bold than the first time she blatantly stared. His neck and ears grow too warm for his liking, and he finds himself growing surly; inflated with lack of dignity. "S-stop  _staring_ ," he hisses rather pathetically, but still biting venom sheathed underneath. It's a contradicting feeling; no less than a second ago, he  _wanted_ her to stare, but for something so… small and harmless, her stare is almost as intense as his governess. He flounders even more when she doesn't take her eyes off of him and instead tilts her head; he's not enough of a threat, not even to  _her_ , and he doesn't know how to take such a notion. "I… I  _said_..." building up the  _courage_ , the ferocity within his chest doesn't feel natural; he has to force it from within, and it takes too much energy from him, "...t-to stop  _staring_ at me like that. I don't  _like_ it. You  _have_ to do what I say, I'm a prince," he puffs out despite not  _exactly_ knowing what the title holds. He knows it's enough to have the maids and servants scurry about and commit to his every whim, even if it's Gidrog that has to bark out the orders instead of him. Hoping that the baring of his teeth is enough to get his point across, Ben tries to stand taller than he really is, to  _really_ intimidate her. But when it isn't, Rey breathes out something like a  _laugh_ , and it bewilders him.

His gaze lingers on his black gloves; why are her hands not covered? She's more delicate, more frail than him. Why is she not being protected? With shaking anticipation, he removes a glove, revealing the pale, shaky, nearly white skin and bony fingers underneath; he deflates with defeat. "You..." he pokes her softly on the soft, center of her small forehead, massaging the spot as he is  _fascinated_ by how  _soft_ the skin there is. Not at all pasty or chapped like his, despite his extreme time indoors; there's so much  _color_ to her, and he's too  _aware_ of their differences. "You're…  _annoying,_ " and  _still_ , she laughs  _louder_ ; the mere sight makes his own lips twitch in something  _like_ a smile, eyes widening in wonder. He shuffles closer, ever so slightly, wanting to poke her in that soft spot on her forehead, if only to get rid of that  _developing furrow of her brow because he_ _ **doesn't**_ _like it_ — "I'm a  _prince_ ," he repeats, talking to himself… to her… whoever is willing to listen, "That means I'm going to be  _King_  one day, I think." his brown eyes glaze to something else; thoughts of his father, of his title being thrown about nearly in all of Ben's life, the  _weight_ behind the words never fully taken into consideration up until this moment. "And then you  _really_ have to do what I say; you're small and can't even speak," his voice is soft, strained and crackling from the clear disuse, but very childlike all the same in its' wonder, "… so I'll forgive you for being  _no brained_ ," a term he has heard Gidrog all too often use for the servants. "If you do what I say, I'll…. I'll give you nice things." Kings can do that, right? They can give…  _many_ things, if his own father is anything to go by. They possess acres of land and kingdoms and knights; that's about as much as he knows. "You can be a knight, or a princess; I'll let you, if you really want to. I'll ask Gidrog what one must do to be a Queen. I think you have to marry me." He doesn't know the definition of the word, having only heard it  _once_ or  _twice_ in his entire ten year lifetime; Ben has always assumed that the King and Queen were bound because they were the most powerful warriors of their lands, something to that effect. "I'd let you play with all my toys if we were married."

But something in him shifts, and his gaze is growing solemn; shadows graying his sullen expression by the second. "But… are you going to be afraid of me too? Do you think me  _ugly_?" He asks this with no real malice, but growing disappointment, all too readily accepting what he perceives to be the truth. And yet, he still anticipates an answer; all too eager on the infant's opinion. "I think… I think I'm ugly. That's what I hear servants saying sometimes." He shrugs, half ashamed, half a  _little too hard to trying to mask the wobble of his lips_ , "… But my governess never really mentions Kings being handsome in the stories she tells me. I don't think it matters much..." he trails off.

And, almost as a response, she grasps his finger with small, nearly doll-like hand. Ben wriggles his finger, but Rey only grasps tighter with more strength than he's ever possessed. They stay like that for what seems to be like years, and he matches her own, wide stare; entranced and confused and  _excited_  that he  _may_ have a companion now. He's not so  _alone_. His breath escapes him, and he is left almost speechless. But then something hits his nose, and he nearly wretches back in disgust; " _What_ is that  _smell?!"_  As if the baby understand his words, she laughs louder, beaming in delight. But then, both Rey and the crib slowly begin to fade, and something tugs in his chest, almost painfully. And in a blink of an eye, she is gone. His finger is grasped by air, and the child is left with an empty feeling at the bottom pit of his stomach for a long time after the fact.

It only continues on after that.

The encounter leaves him with a desire for more; the days would pass, and whether he would be consciously aware of it or not, even against all of his instincts at the prospect of his governess catching him or noticing any discrepancy, he would stay up as long as he could, just to see if the baby would appear. Whatever fear had previous bubbled in his core, as the very first night he had heard her cry, slowly but surely turned into excitement until he felt very little of whatever madness and panic had possessed him the night they first made contact; he'd pretend to fall asleep once Gidrog would step in, falling just a  _little_ too hard on the mattress and snore  _just_ a bit more exaggeratedly than he actually does, but he'd  _try_ nonetheless and it seemed to be enough for the governess. He would wake up with only thoughts of the baby filling his head; would she appear that night, and if so would she able to understand him? Would she talk? So many questions he'd wanted answers to; he'd even asked for books on babies. Gidrog had given him a look of horror and given him a blatant  _no_.

The next time the baby appears, Ben practically yanks the sheets off him, and rushes over like a duckling; she's wearing the  _most ridiculous_  dress he's ever seen. It's dirty, the white color of the fabric rather emphasizing even the subtlest of smudges on the skirt portion; it's too  _big_ for her and she's a lot more animated than the first couple of times, eyes still wide and curious and roaming all around her, but when her gaze lands on him, her mouth does that strange  _thing_ that's a little wider than a smile and she shows no teeth. She breathes a high pitched  _"—Agh!"_ despite the pacifier in her mouth, excited and lively, and he likes to think that she's happy to see him. He has an expression close to bleeding excitement,  _almost_ a smile; but it drop into a slight frown in less than a span of a second as he regards her carefully.

"You… You haven't shown up in nearly  _five_ days; I've been  _waiting,_ " he pouts, his brow furrowed in slight annoyance. He expects her to at least be sheepish, but his annoyed mood evaporates as she looks around him. "You're not even paying attention," he huffs. His gaze follows her line of sight and a sudden thought hits him. "Can you see my surroundings? I can't see yours. Just  _you…_ and your bed." Of course she still doesn't respond, and his hand reaches out on her dull pacifier, tugging on it lightly; enough to catch her attention, but not enough to yank it away from her. "I don't think Gidrog likes that I'm asking too much about babies; she never responds to my questions." He shrugs when Rey captures his finger with her hand, though, he's reluctant to admit that he actually  _likes_ the feeling of her tiny hand his, like she  _needs_ him; like he can  _protect_ her. He pretends that she's speaking to him, and so he holds the conversation with himself. "Everyone talks about me; they say I'm an  _o-omen_. You know, like a curse; they talk about my grandfather…  _Fuhrer_ was his name."

Rey blinks at him.

Ben shrugs, as if exasperated with her for 'asking' and having to explain. "It's a weird name. Gidrog doesn't like to talk about him. I don't think he was very nice." He pokes her forehead with his other hand, not wanting to break contact with her hand. "But you're really curious about it, I can tell; I'll ask, if you like…. I wonder when you'll be able to talk. I'm  _ten_ ; you still have a long way to go, you're  _tiny_." He blinks, realization dawning on his young features. "When  _you_ turn ten, I'll be  _twenty_." His small fingers try to count the number out, but young Ben can't even begin to  _digest_ that number; it seems like  _centuries_ from now, a lifetime that he's always been told he'd never fulfill, and something in his eyes shift. "Don't worry; I'll still talk to you. I'll  _protect_ you. You won't be alone when you're ten. I promise." And in that moment, only pure, naive, genuine honesty bleeds through his words; wholehearted and meaningful, Ben curls his finger on her hand just a little tighter, a little closer. She seems content with the action, because she nestles her head back comfortably, her eyes closing slowly. Before he is sure that she is to disappear, he reluctantly yet hastily breaks his finger free, running to crouch below the bed, lanky arm prodding for the pair of dice he had discarded on his birthday, gifted to him by his father. As if his life depends on it, he clutches the small toy to his chest, and runs back to the ghost crib, nestling it in the crook of baby Rey's arm and curling it around her fingers, her chin nuzzling against the soft fabric behind her. The golden dice dissipate along with her.

 **(** **&. ** **)**

"You're quite excited, child."

Something in the ambiance within the castle's walls has shifted irrevocably; it's in the way Ben walks, how he carries himself even beneath his black garb, and it's how his gaze lingers to something else beyond the narrow view of the hallway he walks in, almost as if he wants to take  _the mask off_. It's a worrisome new development; the boy is more animated _,_ more childlike, a concept that all too easily flusters anyone who is around him, even the doctor who regularly visits to give him his check ups. Nearly two months after his tenth birthday,  _after his encounter with the phantom baby_  and after a  _very_ awkward shuffle of words with his Governess, the doctor had taken the boy's bony wrist, hidden beneath the folds of his long sleeved cloak, the man's gaze withered and worn from years of loyalty and service and  _seeing too much death and tragedy in his whole life_ — it's a steady, inescapable stare, one that clearly and all too easily makes Ben falter visibly, but there's a  _spark_ that even the doctor doesn't miss; one of  _life_ and  _mischief_. The aged man rubs his forehead with a thumb and forefinger, exasperated as though a live tragedy is taking place, and it makes Ben wonder what exactly he's done wrong this time. Preferring to shrink away in shame; shame of  _what,_ he doesn't know, but it's prevalent all over his small body, making his toes wriggle in discomfort. The doctor notices this, gaze flickering to the small movement at the end of the sheets. The child's lips continue to remain shut, however.

"Too much excitement is not healthy for you, prince. What sort of activities have you been up to? You haven't been sleeping enough."

The sound of Gidrog's sharp cough slices through the silence like a sharp axe; it makes Ben jump in surprise, eyes nearly  _pleading_ at his governess,  _begging_ to not be amplified, for he doesn't want to speak. Yet the woman gives him something close to a scowl, and her thoughts are almost manifested verbally, even without words;  _You are a young man now; speak when spoken to._ She has no compassion for him in times like these for he had to learn how to step out of his shell now that it has been more than disproved that he is not fated to a life of constant fatigue and illness. Her hands clasp tighter behind her back, and she stands just a bit straighter. "Your  _Highness_ ," she somewhat-hisses the word out, trying to grip his attention and call him to behave properly. "Speak  _plainly_ boy; the doctor asked you a question."

This just makes Ben's lips clamp tighter, the urge to hide away into nothing is amplified by the sheer weight of both the adult's stares; as if they're trying to dissect him alive. He doesn't like the discomfort, and he's almost sure that Gidrog won't accommodate him in these times anymore. He wants to ask so many questions, for he  _wonders_ why exactly 'too much excitement' is  _bad_ for him. Do they  _wish_ him dead? He doesn't  _understand_  and he wants them to go  _away_ , they  _suffocate_ him. Ben's hands clamp tighter around the sheets, desperately clenching them into his fist and the feeling bringing nothing more than an itchy feeling traveling all the way up his neck and scalp. He wants them to  _leave_ because he wants to see if Rey will appear; the longer they stay, the more chance they might have of seeing her and he  _doesn't like to_ _ **share.**_ Rey is  _his_ secret; the only thing he stays up for and the sole reason he doesn't sleep anymore. His eyes clench so tightly that he feels they're about to burst from the pressure that is reigned in. "I… I..." he stutters again, and he wills everything he can muster to  _not_ to. "... _no-nothing_. I… haven't been doing  _anything_."

Gidrog and the doctor share a glance; frustration etched into their faces at the boy's lack of cooperation. "Your Highness,  _please,_ be civil. We must inform your father of  _any_ discrep—" But something in those words must have seared through the boy's mind, because no more than a second after the man's words, he is startled with wide brown eyes that are  _much_ closer than they were.

" _Don't tell **him**!" _ Ben's declaration is so loud, so  _full_ of lively energy and raw emotion, that both Governess and doctor's breaths hitch; this is  _not_ the child that has bared such isolation, such  _lack_ of socialization and companionship. He doesn't resemble their image of the boy in the slightest; for he is unruly and  _is that the start of a true temper tantrum?_ Not the kind he always does, where he sits and screams; no, one more fit to a  _boy_ his age, one which he  _talks_ back with  _reasoning_ and is as stubborn as a mule? "I won't allow it! I  _already_ sa- _said_  I haven't done  _anything_! Like  _always!_ " Each words is a rung of a ladder, escalating in volume and certainty; fire and  _excitement_ behind each syllable. He never speaks so outwardly, never in full phrases, and never in such a cohesive manner. "It's not like he cares!"

Gidrog's mouth sets into a  _very_ fine line, her icy blue eyes hardening with the onslaught of a blizzard. "Cares. About.  _What?"_ The tone of her voice sends a chill to the very center of the room, into both recipient's spines; more so Ben than the doctor. Her teeth are clenched, and she's absolutely  _livid_ at the sheer  _deviance_ of the young prince. Such mannerisms are  _not_ befitting to the boy;  _not_ when he's beginning to grow a  _voice_ and thinking he can actually  _command_ something other than types of tea he wants. "What have you been  _doing_? Are you  _confirming_ that you've been doing  _irregular_ activities, Young Prince? Is that what this is? We had to bring in the doctor for you to  _tell_ me that?" Each question is a  _very_ cold dagger to Ben's chest, and every accusation laced into them is an inch  _closer_ to his secret. Guilt and the sense of  _trouble_ worm through his throat, blocking any chance he has of responding properly. The doctor looks like he's about to speak, but an armored clad arm is held out as firm as a sword in front of him; Gidrog's eyes never leaves Ben's soft brown ones. "Quite then; if what you say is  _true_ , and I will take you on your word that  _it is_ , then we'll excuse ourselves for tonight," the words form a soft reprimanding, but from her lips they are thinly veiled concealed threat that makes Ben want to  _run_. The soft thunder of his small heart echoes within his ears, each thump making his chest rise. Both doctor and governess collect themselves and step away from Ben's quarters for the night. Ben doesn't miss the icy gaze sent his way when Gidrog glances at him just before stepping out the door. "Do  _sleep_ tonight, young prince."

He gulps, but he says nothing otherwise. The anxiety from the encounter has him visibly shaken, and he feels like throwing up right then and there. All too suddenly, he doesn't want Rey to appear; he doesn't think he can utter even a syllable from his quivering lips. Yet he finds himself very disappointed anyway when she doesn't. His eyes are clenched shut, and he hides himself beneath the covers, and in that moment, he  _hates_ himself more than words can ever express; he doesn't exactly know  _why_ , but even he knows that he is much too  _weak_. For how can he protect her if he can't even stand on his own? That night, she doesn't appear, but it doesn't stop him from being restless anyway, and so he lays on his bed with eyes wide open and with tears threatening to leak  _but not quite letting himself cry just yet,_ and he  _prays,_ to whoever is willing to listen, to  _pay attention to him_ , that for he stop being  _him_. Because the boy, however much sheltered he is, already wants nothing more to be anyone else. Anyone else beside himself. He throws the blankets off himself, and he in sheer desperation and senseless  _hope_ , he kneels down beside the bed, arms resting and hands clasped in a united fist as his wet eyes stare at the darkness ahead him dead on. Gidrog had taught him to pray only  _once_ , out of basic principle more than anything else. But Ben understands the weight of such beliefs and mildly comprehends the basic level of 'spiritual guidance'. It's what he thinks he needs; an ear willing to lend itself to him. "F-fuhrer…." he doesn't remember the exact prose to a formal prayer; bu the knows that it's baring your soul to the Lord.

But Ben has never truly believed in a being called God; not when he's been alone and isolated and timid and scared. So he calls out to the name of his grandfather, unknowing that  _Fuhrer_ isn't his name at all. In his innocence, he thinks he is addressing his grandfather; someone who had seemed to be as misunderstood as he is. "I've n-never met you… but I d-don't think you were that mean. Everyone talks about you, yet they never  _tell me_ when I ask. I think… I think we're a lot alike." His throat clamps, and he wants to cry, but he snuffs it out with a cough. "I don't think you were  _that_ mean; maybe nobody listened. I know that you liked black and you also had to wear a mask." The small details he's heard here and there bring Ben comfort; the more he's been able to hear, the more he's paid attention, the more he's come to realize that  _maybe_ there's someone out there like him. For a second, an image of Rey fills his mind, and his eyes squint through the tears. "I think… I think I can become a great King like you; not like  _him_ , he never visits me… I wa-want to be strong, like I hear you were… like I  _know_ you were. Can you teach me? Can you  _show_ me how to be strong, like you? So I can  _prove everyone wrong?_ "

Ben shifts his gaze  _ever so slowly_ , overcome by his one-sided talk with someone who's long gone, someone he doesn't even fully  _know_ about… and at that very second, a pair of eyes connect with his through a crack in his door. Icy blue pits of pure ire make him freeze on the spot; he hears the sword before he even knows what the sound is. There's a scream – _her battle cry, her swears, her calls of 'wretched beast!' or his terrified shriek that bounce along his walls, he isn't sure which is more prominent_ – and he finds himself falling back and nearly passing out from the shock. Gidrog has a wild  _sneer,_ eyes  _lively and bloodthirsty_ as she strides closer and  _closer_ to him, sword held high above her head about to strike. He's hit his head against the edge of his windowsill, and he's frozen in sheer fear, absolutely helpless as he looks on,  _pleading and confused,_ to his most trusted caretaker. He sees no compassion there; perhaps there never was. It all happens too fast, too quickly for him to digest but he  _understands_  that in that moment, he is meant to  _die_ and he's never been more afraid. "I knew it… I  _knew_ it! Wretched  _child!_ King Solo be  _damned;_ I will  _not_ allow this…  _I will not **allow** this! Not when it can be  **stopped**! I should have  **killed** you the second I saw you kneel in the hallway! What  **witchcraft** have you been committing?!" _Half of her rambles don't make a lick of sense to him, he's only aware of her thunderous power behind every intake of breath she takes; every word is a blazing fire,  _poison_ directed at him for being a  _curse._

This time, he  _truly_ believes he's going to die; he can almost see it,  _almost_ envision in whatever limited capabilities he has within his imagination. He's never seen battle, has never drawn blood; he has been far too protected, too  _sheltered_ to truly digest or even think of such horror. But it doesn't stop him from thinking about such horror anyway. Something in him  _shifts_ in pure instinctual, animalistic sheer will to  _live_ ; he holds a small hand out in front of him, in a vain attempt to  _shield_ himself from the offense, and immediately, it's as if air and time itself  _halt_ s; something that makes his spine grow cold and freezing sweat glaze over his forehead. He  _hears_ Gidrog's sharp gasp, and he  _feels_ the vibration of her weapon falling onto the floor,  _beside him and the sharpened blade touching his foot_ , but it takes him nearly a lifetime to look up. He's completely taut with a tenseness that physically  _hurts_ and nearly takes all of his strength to hold together in one piece.

He is met with sight of her floating in mid-air, clutching her throat; " _—J-just like **him**. Like  **HIM!** " _Ben's arm and hand tremble nearly violently; her wide-eyed gaze has him  _trapped_  against his own quivering stare.  _"W-wretched. C-c-cursed. **MONSTER!**_ " The words echo in his mind, it's the only thing he can understand from all this madness.  _Unwanted. Curse. Omen._  Ben doesn't understand; hadn't she been in  _disagreement_ with such talk? Hadn't she gotten  _rid_ of those who dare speak such words about him?! But he doesn't let his arm down, even after his tears spill like a cascade. His hand trembles in mid-air, but out of sheer paralyzing fear, he doesn't let it down; Ben screams in pure, childish agony.

The Young Prince would never be the same after that for years to come.

**( &. )**

**(*) Guinevere Gidrog:**  Guinevere is a variant of Gwendolyn, named after Phasma's actress,  _Gwendolyn Christine._ Gidrog is the Old Saxon word for phantom.

 **NEXT SEGMENT:**   _ **003\. I wished upon a star and received you** _


	3. (I) I wished upon a star and received you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fic promo: https://ezfa.tumblr.com/post/173964053015/evanescent-masterpost-a-reylo-fanfiction  
> Bother me on Ezfa @ tumblr

**A/N:** _More baby Rey! Fluff! Magic! Hoorah!_

**( &. )**

**ໟ** **.~** **( INTERLUDE )~.** **ໟ  
** _**003\. I wished upon a star and received you** _

**HE'S BEEN SILENT**  since the incident; his already sunken eyes are rimmed bright red and the bags under his eyes belong to someone so elderly, not on a child. He's been desperate to break out of this insufferable silence and  _yet,_ every creak, every step, every whisper and every  _breath_ he hears from beyond his walls send his nerves on a frenzy. He had thrown the most notorious tantrum — _tantrum,_ they called his shaken reaction as the guards had whisked Gidrog away and the maids attempted to tend to him. He made it clear he didn't  _want_ anyone in his room, and by word of mouth, that order made it to the  _his father._ Or so Ben assumed, anyway, because  _no one_ has made even an attempt to enter his chambers since the whole incident. So he does the only thing he's learned how to do; He waits for Rey to appear. Though the despair of someone close having raised their sword to him fuels his nightmares inevitably, he replaces the turmoil with purposeful excitement; it barely works, but it's a thread he hangs on to nonetheless. At some point he realized he never once said her name out loud and young Ben doesn't  _really_ understand  _why_ it's important all of a sudden, but it  _is_ , and in his own attempt to squelch down the constant, stomach-churning, trepidation that consumes his very soul, his mind wanders to big hazel eyes and soft, mushy foreheads. He doesn't see her for a while, and it  _almost_ feels like, at least in fleeting moments, everything is back to normal, as if he's harboring his very own well kept secret. He is an unmovable force in the sheets; from morning until dawn, and from then to the night… just  _waiting_.

His eyes and mouth and  _fingers_ twitch when he feels that familiar pull of his soul being tugged slightly, from the root of his chest as if his breath if being  _stolen_ from him. He closes his eyes and his body  _itches_  all over from adrenaline, yet anticipation roots him to the spot.

She's just at the foot of the bed; he's within reaching distance if he just stretched his arm instead of having it clamped over his bent knees. "...It's you..." he says simply, quietly, as if he wills the words to come out sarcastically, yet they're anything but. Rey is just a baby, though, and so her lack of response and eye contact make him more at ease if only marginally. But she seems to recognize him well enough, for her eyes brighten in a way that makes Ben feel like she's  _familiar_ with him. But right now, it does very little to cheer him up. In contrast to her happy, jerky body and head movements, Ben clamps tighter, tightening his form as he ducks his head into his knees. "You took  _time_ to appear,  _again._ You've had me waiting; I don't  _like_ to wait," he says this without any real effort or scorn, tone listless. "Gidrog always says that time is  _valuable_. ' _It shan't be wasted,'_ so she would say—" His throat closes in of itself, and tears well up in the back of his eyes and he lets out a strangled cry that manages to catch the baby's attention, as if spooked and she looks to him with wide eyes. He wonders for a brief moment if she can  _tell_ if he's upset; babies don't look particularly observant, so he adds that to his growing mental list of information he can pick up from Rey. "…. She tried to  _kill_ me." Saying it out loud makes it more  _real_ , somehow, more frightening, and he grips his head and the roots of his hair as he lets out a sound that's a mixture between a strangle and a sob. "My governess  _raised a sword to my_ ** _head_** _."_  He says it again, whispering it like a mantra; still trying to absorb the  _shock_  of it all. Hot scorching  _traitorous_ tears finally cascade down his pale cheeks, but he still clenches his eyes even more anyway, despite starting to see stars. He  _hates_ crying; not so much the fact that it makes him feel so  _weak_ as everyone else would suffocate him with the weight of that word, but for the fact on how it makes him  _feel_ physically; it's a tiresome, aching thing. He wishes for nothing more in this moment than to have his plague mask and cloak on;  _at least_ that way, he could freely let his tears fall without anyone having to  _tell_ that he's in such a state. Nobody would  _care_ because he's  _so_ very taken care of. He lets out a rueful shudder; at who is questionable. At himself, at his servants, at Gidrog, at the  _King_ ; he doesn't even know, truthfully. Having momentarily forgotten about company, he peers his vision up ever so slightly at the sound of a shuffle, nearly snapping to.

As always, Rey remains so oblivious. Her hazel eyes are wide, curious and though she  _stares_ , she doesn't stare for too long before her gaze wanders to anything else. He says nothing as she places her fingers in her mouth and begins sucking messily, gurgling in bliss. In that moment, even fleeting, he is truly  _envious._ He  _suffers_ , nearly having been  _killed_ not more than some days ago —perhaps even a week, he's lost track of the time-  _and yet_ , for all his tears and worries, his aches and pains, here she sits… blissfully  _oblivious_ to the world around him, to  _him,_  and he  _doesn't_ like the notion. "...I almost  _died_. Would you have noticed?" Somewhere in the back of his mind, the boy  _knows_ this is…  _illogical_. She's so  _small_  and  _young_ and literally a  _baby_ ; she knows nothing, she probably doesn't even know her own  _name_. But it doesn't stop from his indignity to nearly skyrocket; "Would you still be  _smiling_?" Though he means his words to have  _bite_ and for his anger to seep through, they fall and crack every time he tries to focus on her; she's just so… so…  _blissfully_ unaware of everything _,_ and though he is jealous, it exasperates and bemuses him more so than outright angers him. He deflates after it's obvious she won't respond, letting out a shaky sigh he lets go of his knees. "Yeah you probably would have. Nobody cares about me; nobody cares about  _Ben,"_ he mutters to himself, looking down to his knobby knees;  _weak_ _and sickly._

"Bah." He blinks and looks up; he's almost taken aback by Rey's  _stare_ , tiny mushy mouth set into a fine line on her plush skin, and even her  _brows_ are creased as if focused. It's like she's wanting to  _talk_ to him, and for a moment, being the ten year old secluded child he is, he even expects a sentence. He holds his breath for what seems minutes, his heart palpitating with each passing second; oh so very slowly, she opens her mouth and he leans forward without knowing. She says it again, louder; " _Bah."_

"I…  _excuse_ me?"

" _Bah."_

It takes him a moment, but when realization dawns on him, he practically begins sputtering. "…. _No._ I said Ben.  _Ben_. My name is  _Ben_. Not bah."

"Bah."

"No. No, Rey, you're not…  _understanding_ me. It's Ben.  _Beee-en._ " He signs the length of the 'e' with two fingers, in his small mind  _helping_ her understand the significance of the stretched out vowel. "Three letters. B-E-N." Tragedy and hurt pushed aside, his focus has now shifted completely to her and though he may not realize it, it's exactly what he needs. He's untangled himself from his bed sheets, having shifted closer to the baby, looming over her almost protectively but secretly elated that she has  _spoken_. To him.  _At_ him. Saying his  _name_. Or trying to, anyway. He says it again, each time widening his eyes more with  _excitement_ and reveling in the tilt of her head and her curious eyes fixated on him like he's the most interesting thing in her world, the concept making him  _e_ _xcite_ _d_ even. He waits for her to say it again, and he thinks she's going to  _finally_ say it correctly this time.

"…. _Bbbbb—_ ah _."_

Ben visibly deflates, sagging his shoulders and resting his wrists over each of his knees. He's shifted over to a cross legged position, and it's the first time in weeks since he's moved this much, and he ignores the ache in his limbs from lack of movement. He looks over at her exasperatedly, as if she's committed nothing more than pure mistakes, as if he's her teacher, and she's his rambunctious student. He likes the thought of that; likes having someone who looks at him for  _guidance_ and  _reassurance_ as opposed to him constantly looking for it himself. "Okay… ' _Bah'_  it is then." He pokes a finger to her forehead, gently massaging that  _spot_  and she laughs. For the first time in what seems to have been  _forever_ , he smiles. It's ugly, feels unnatural and isn't well-rehearsed, but it's a true genuine smile nonetheless. Rey grins wider at the sight and she squeals as his finger probes the skin of her center gently. "I think… I think you're the only one that likes me right now. Everyone else… doesn't." Talking about it, now that he's just a bit more relaxed, is slightly easier; at least talking to an infant that has no concept of anything other than food won't judge one so harshly, and even then Ben fears that very same thing, but he tries to, anyway. He shrugs, and  _—thankfully,_ is getting much better at controlling his facial muscles and spazzy movements. "I don't know why Gidrog got mad at me… but she was. I think maybe she was already mad at me for some time now." He purposefully leaves out the part where she called him a  _monster_ and that she was like  _Him_ , not wanting Rey most of all to look at him in such a bad light. Not when she's looking at him like he's fascinating, like he means  _something_ to her; maybe everything. And that's not a position he wants to be demoted from so easily; because it means at least  _one person_ out there isn't judging him so harshly.

She just gurgles happily at him, and far too quickly her gaze wanders elsewhere. He pokes her on the nose, marveling at the little bunch. His eyes land on familiar  _golden_ dice tied at her wrists, and he finds himself reaching nimble fingers to try and  _loosen_ them; her wrists are too small,  _too frail_  to have anything tied onto them. This time, when she dissipates from view, he is not disappointed or saddened. It is the first time he sleeps properly in a long while.

**( &. )**

It's becoming something of a routine now. Rey is easy to talk to, and it's so easy to pretend that he's her friend rather than an oblivious infant who has no  _real_ choice or willingness to listen to him, but it doesn't dissuade him in the very least. Sometimes, she appears at the foot of his bed, other times she appears in that same ghost crib he saw her in the second time they'd met up. Each and every time, Ben is careful and just a little  _too_ excited, and he speaks more so than the last, letting down his mental defenses he puts up for everyone else. He's becoming more and more endeared to her apparent take on his name;  _Bah._ And she says it  _each_ time her gaze wanders to his; sometimes she does it when he doesn't even realize she's appeared, and it sends a jolt of something in his little heart, making him smile  _just a little wider._

"I saw my father for the first time;  _really_ saw him." His voice is heavy, his posture a little too dramatic as he lays down on his bed with his head leaning against his fist, seemingly bored and just a bit  _casual_. Rey is near, off to the near edge of the large bed with her tummy flat on the mattress sprawled against a dirty blanket —one that is clearly not his. She has a pacifier in her mouth and they face each other like something friends might possibly do; Ben isn't sure. "Without my mask; I don't let  _anyone_ see me without my mask, except you. Gidrog said it was to help me with my ailments… but I think I can go on without it. Maybe. I don't know." As if she asks, he gets up from his position and grabs the plague mask tucked neatly under his bed, and he fingers the edges of the leathery, horrifying, black thing. He pouts in distaste as he gazes at her, showing her. "I look like a bird. I  _hate_ birds." As if to emphasize his point, he places the mask in front of his face and, in an attempt to be  _funny_ , he tilts his head side to side.

This proves to be a mistake, because the Rey  _shrieks_  and cries at the sight.

He nearly jumps out of his skin, dropping the giant mask and nearly howls in pain when the beak of it hits his leg sharply. His poor little heart is in a frenzy, and he's wide eyed as he stares at her. She's never cried like this in front of him…  _because_ of him, and he doesn't  _like_ to hear her cry. "No… no… I…. don't  _c-cry._ " Half of him is urged to clamp his hands over his ears, and the other is nearly  _broken_ at the sight of her crying, helpless. He doesn't know what to do, and he doesn't want to  _scare_ her any further. His shallow breaths don't let him speak. "I...I…. I'm sorry… I'm  _sorry_ ," he says shakily, panicked. "L-look. Look! I'm putting it away! See?!" He hastily buries the wretched mask under his bed; but Rey's crying is only getting louder and her eyes are shut, mouth wide open letting out piercing shrieks. He doesn't know what  _to do!_ The boy doesn't have the slightest knowledge in how to even comfort and child, so it doesn't occur to him to at least rock her or smooth out her belly. He sits there, tense and utterly  _terrified_ and guilty. So guilty. "I'm sorry," he repeats over and over, each time deflating in volume. He's too scared to touch her, and he finds himself wanting to cry too.

" _Mother Superior! It's the child! She's crying again!"_ Ben jumps at the voice, breathing ragged and harsh  _and familiar_ — this time, however, he doesn't quite bother to look around for the source. He only looks on as she slowly fades from his view, the voices on her end of this strange bond fading along with her..

He's never felt so wretched until now.

**( &. )**

**NEXT SEGMENT: _004. peering at the universe through cracked glass_**


	4. (I) peering at the universe through cracked glass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fic promo: https://ezfa.tumblr.com/post/173964053015/evanescent-masterpost-a-reylo-fanfiction  
> Bother me on Ezfa @ tumblr

**A/N:** _Older Ben! Coach Hux! Toddler Rey!_ _Magic_ _! Oh my!_ _Thank my four year old niece; she's the real MVP. Asked her a bunch of questions and took notes on her little mannerisms. Believe it or not, children are very smart and can be bossy,_ _nonsensical, demanding_ _little things!_

**( &. )**

**ໟ** **.~( PART I )** **~.** **ໟ  
** _**004\. peering at the universe through cracked glass** _

**THIRTEEN YEAR OLD** Ben doesn't like  _Armitage Hux_ very much. Just the very mention of the  _prissy_ ,  _white eyelash, fiery red spit of hair, thinks-he's-too-good-to-be-the-Prince's-trainer's_ name is enough for Ben to suck in a breath and dampen his already default cloudy mood. In the beginning he'd try to, every time,  _hide_ under his bed and see if he could miss out on his fencing training. He realized it hadn't been working when one day the eighteen year old  _Satan_ finally hauled him out from underneath from his bony ankles and pointed his sword's blade not even an  _inch_ away from Ben's chin, going on  _and on_ about he'd have to, eventually, step out of his barriers, even if he had to break them himself,  _not to mention the fact that the incident with his governess should be taken in as a_ _ **lesson**_ _and oh, how that got his blood boiling_. It's been like that for a little over a year now and he had become absolutely spiteful when he found out that, in fact, it had been the very King himself that called such call to action. From then on, the boy  _refused_ to speak to Han; before,  _before the incident with Gidrog,_ the lack of communication was that of uncertainty on Han's part and naivete on Ben's part. It's a confusing concept; somewhere, Hux has mentioned that he had been hired  _because_ of the incident of Gidrog, and perhaps Han  _did_ try to talk to Ben about it… but Ben had  _refused_ to look him in the eye. It hadn't been hard to do, since Han had been looking at everywhere else  _but his own son,_ like he didn't know how to act or what opinion to hold of him. When he saw his father in the flesh, Ben had been left disappointed somehow, unimpressed but no less resentful. But he's older now, and he  _understands_ things just a little more, even if he believes he understands absolutely  _everything,_ for he  _knows_ without fail that Han definitely doesn't want to look at him.

That fact is somehow much clearer now.

He needn't wear the mask anymore —Hux had made  _sure_ of that with constant belittlement and calling him  _weak—_ and so Ben started to  _really_ able to study himself closely; there had been no basis of comparison for before, and with his lack of imagination, Ben had nowhere near an image of what he's  _supposed_ to look like. Yet, as time passed, he started to comprehend some of the whispers thwarted venomously by his servants. When he had first laid eyes on Hux, Ben felt his first splurges of  _jealousy_ course through his weakened veins; at the very preface of puberty, his lankiness didn't waver, but rather  _increased_ along with his noodle-like arms and legs. He was clumsy, not only for his lack of straying past the interior of his room, but also because he'd suddenly been thrust into vigorous training regimen that started too early in the morning, and it left him no time to adapt. Tall  _and_ clumsy. His voice had also begun to change, tones heightening and lowering at the worst of times.  _Bumps_ and  _hair_ in places that really did  _not_ feel like they belonged. Hux's posture is always tall, proud and composed. When they had begun Ben's formal training a year ago, it had been one of the first thing's the boy took note of. After that, it had been the man's build, which made him nearly scowl and subconsciously rub his twig arms in  _shame_ ; an act that did not go unnoticed by the eighteen year old, and  _most_ certainly did not go unspoken of. His  _attitude_ made Ben squirm in discomfort and heightened his defenses. He doesn't trust anyone, not even the crook of his own reflection, and so to see such a vastly different,  _belittling_  behavior from someone that was supposed to formally train him didn't fail to utterly raise the hairs on his neck and bare his teeth. It doesn't help that Hux always regards him with something akin to  _contempt_ , a look that makes Ben  _furious_ without fail.

Like right now.

"Get up," tone unforgiving, stiff and  _steady,_ Hux's face is such a  _blank_ slate, but Ben doesn't miss the scorn in his blue eyes as he peers through his ridiculously stupid white lashes. The tip of his sharpened sword is a millimeter away from Ben's nose, and Ben  _glowers_ above at his attacker with all the venom, spite and resentment a thirteen year old boy could muster, even with the undignified stream of blood pouring from the gash on his forehead, and the slight purple bruising around his eye that's starting to swell. He doesn't even have to pretend it's his father, like he's done in the beginning; the kind of anger that Hux provides him with is not the kind a child has for their estranged sire, but that of spoiled envy and raw ire. Hux  _knows_ this about Ben, knows that he's only a  _boy_ with nothing else going for him other than his title alone, and even then, that's waning more and more as the years pass. It wouldn't be long until Bestellung would turn into legend, bleeding dry along with myths of fairies and dragons. "I said to  _get up_. We aren't finished. You're barely getting any better, and we've been at this for over two hours now." The accent punctuates the end of his words with utter amusement, much to Ben's dismay and rage; every word is a constriction on his lower abdomen, and he wants to  _bash_ the older man's face in. But they both know that even with all the significant training the boy has endured from him, even with the slight beginnings of muscle starting to coil around his arms and the slightly better posture he's adapted from sheer instinct to defend alone, that he's nowhere near in prowess as Hux, nor is he truly expected to pick up on such anytime soon. And this is what makes Ben  _seethe_ each and every time they face off. "I've said it once, and I shall say it again,  _Young Prince_ ," he spits out the title in a mocking tone, uppity and biting, "But you have a long way to go before you can even hope to properly defend this very Kingdom. You need to  _break bones_ and cough your  _liver out_ before you can even  _think_  of standing up."

— _Insufferable beast,_ he thinks. Ben's eyes are slits; he wipes the bloody sweat dribbling on his chin with a shaky hand. Though he is on his the ground, barely supporting himself with an arm, vulnerable to any other oncoming offense, his voice comes out certain. "As if I don't every time we do this." His once consistent stutter had long passed, yet despite the fact, much to his chagrin, Hux  _smirks_ as if he wasn't able to make it through the sentence; it's a facial gesture that gets his blood  _boiling_ because it means he has the  _higher_ position in an argument that they're not even having. He  _hates_ it because it always makes him feel like he's said something that all too easily is  _naive_. But he's as rebellious as they come, even just to spite Hux is motivation alone. "I don't even  _want_ to be here!" Ben bites out despite the throbbing of his head and the sheer effort alone it takes to utter those words, the inconsistent lowering and high pitch woven through his voice not at all helping his valiant effort, instead practically mortifying him but he just doesn't  _care_.

But Ben doesn't have time to react before it's already a second too late; Hux is kneeling right before him, yanking his black, sweat glazed curls from the roots and hauls his chin backwards, tip of the sword pressing at the thick vein of his pale, thin neck. Hux is irritated now, evident the ugly scowl that makes Ben stiffen in more paranoia than defiance. " _Yes_ , I  _know_. Rest assured,  _everyone_ knows, impudent  _child_." Ben thinks he's going to spit at him, almost, based on the bob of his throat and the babbling liquid that sputters through his gritted teeth, and he  _prepares_ himself for it. But the screwing shut of his eyes seem to placate Hux, and there's a deafening silence between the two. The tighter the grip on his hair becomes, the more he clutches his own fists until his knuckles are hot white. "Pathetic; A little girl  _a decade younger_ would hold more valor than you," he says, gazing over the boy with the shaking lips in utter disgust, "Still too  _small_ and still too  _skinny._ There's only so much I can do to shape you into a grand warrior; I suppose  _some_ princes aren't destined to step beyond the vicinity of their thrones." With each sentence ending, Hux tugs his cranium painfully, shaking his own head in something that Ben thinks is  _supposed_ to be disappointment. "It's been a  _year,_ and  _barely_ any progress. Your stance is much too uncertain, your instincts are belated and your grip on your sword is  _weak._ Weakness is  _not_ a luxury someone of your title can afford to have, no matter how many servants the  _King_ can afford for you." The paleness of his blue eyes scorch into Ben's, unforgiving and unrelenting. "If you were to be attacked  _again_  in a vulnerable state, would you be able to fend the attacker off?" The question is rhetorical, evidenced by the bite of sarcasm.

He  _hates_ the color  _blue_. It had been the last he saw when his governess tried to behead him when he was most vulnerable, nothing more than a sickly child, and it makes him wriggle on instinct to  _get away_ , but the older man yanks him back and stifles his movements. Unlike when he was still under the care of Gidrog, however, such scowls and impassive eyes do not frighten him anymore; they enrage him, and he's even  _more_ enraged when he realizes that each and every time someone tries to take advantage of him, he can't do much for his lack of size and strength and ill health. With a physical will that hurts his neck, both from the effort and how steady Hux holds him in place, Ben forces himself back to the present and to fight past the crane of his neck. It happens too fast, too unexpectedly, — _cra_ _ **CK**_ —!— comes the sound of forehead butting into the slope of the jaw. Hux howls in pain and reels back from the impact, but he doesn't let go. Ben has been taught to always aim for the nose, jaw or the cheek; anywhere delicate and vital. However, in bending his own neck and placing more effort than what he should have, the blow comes at the price of his own hurt. He sees stars and watercolors and  _black_  and  _it hurts_ , but  _oh_ — and this is the part he  _revels_ in— to see the trickle of blood splurging from Hux's mouth is an absolute  _godsend_. He has no time to hail in his own victory, and in the small span of only seconds to recover, Ben yanks himself out of Hux's grip, almost wincing at the strands that are hauled from the roots in the older man's grip as he had reeled back from the headbutt. The pain from teeth hitting the center of his forehead is a small price to pay to see that  _look_ on Hux's face. Weary of the sword that had clattered beside them, Ben kicks it farther from them and scuttles away from that side.

But Hux is faster, and he makes a move to  _grab_ him again, this time by the base of his forehead, but Ben is  _smaller_ and more weasel-like. It almost looks comical, the way the boy recoils not once, but  _thrice,_ from the red-head; panic wells up in his chest, but so does  _adrenaline_. High on the scent of blood, Ben makes a skittish movement to propel himself even more backwards, like prey, yet simultaneously, anything  _but_. There's  _purpose_ in his movements. And Hux sees something in teenager's eyes, something  _fierce;_ for a fleeting second, he does not, in any way, recognize this boy — _young man_ , as he looks at him dead on. Not with anger, not with spite has he always does, but an unyielding and focused determination. Perhaps he'd probably even feel a tinge of  _pride,_ knowing that his teachings came to bear fruit, even if it had taken a full  _year_ for it show; but the man is  _furious,_ and no amount of non-existent teacher pride would fog his raw ire at the boy. Green indignation swells up from his stomach and up his throat, and he lets out an enraged cry as he swings a heavy fist that makes fierce contact with Ben's cheek, on the same side of his purple eye; he cares not for how young he is. Hux himself was made a man no soon after he could  _walk_ ; he would  _not_ be caught off guard by a sickly, weed-like  _thing._ To Ben's credit, he does not let out any indication of pain; the only evidence that he's even in pain at all is the harsh wince and his wobbly chin. At least he can take a punch like a man. His skin breaks easily,  _so easily_ , but unexpected to  _both_ of them is when he  _grips_  Hux's wrist rather tightly, with a strength that seems impossible. It's a ridiculous moment, because no less than a moment ago, he had just been trying to  _get away_ from him, as if making room for an oncoming attack of his own. Hux tugs him forward, readying to propel Ben's body like a rag doll and punch him again… but he cannot move. He can't even blink. He can barely utter a coherent  _sound_. It's like something is taking a hold of his throat, and his  _eyes_ are bulging out; he can barely roam his irises about, yet they land right on Ben's. They  _burn._ They boy's breathing is harsh,  _ragged_ ; and somehow, the blood spilling from his nose makes his appearance look ethereal, like a ghost. " _Wh—what are you—"_

"Be  _still,_ " Ben spits through gritted teeth, though his tone clearly indicating that he's trying to maintain control, his gaze does not waver. "Just stay  _silent_."

Hux does, and he doesn't know why, but he does. His lips clamp up in their own accord and there's a stark chill in the air he hadn't noticed before. The grip on his wrist feels like it's  _crushing_ his very bones, which is  _ridiculous, because_ _ **how**_   _can Ben's frail hand even_ _ **have**_ _that kind of power?_

"You… You…" Ben's eye twitches, and he can't help the sweat that glazes over his forehead and pour over his lips. "Just…  _stay._ _ **Still**_ _."_ He speaks with a weak authority, but one that peers through the cracks of his breaking, shy, shell. It's an empowering, yet  _scary_ feeling.

Hux is frozen in place, oncoming fist caught in midair by some invisible force.

Ben's lips quiver, teeth slightly chattering as he tries an experimental tug of Hux's wrist. "...Okay… alright,  _good._ Now… just..." he gulps, pausing before his eyes roam around the training room, looking no more than a mere thirteen year old in that very moment hiding something scandalous and hoping not to get caught. "Put your arm  _down_." Hux does, and it takes everything in Ben so as not to sigh in relief; from the slow but sure foggy look in his blue eyes, the boy can tell that he's slowly succumbing to a dream-like state. Like always. After all, he's been getting better in the many times he's been doing this. "You will leave these chambers. You will t-tell the King that I need more training, and you will train me some more next week."

" _I will leave these chambers. I will t-tell the King that you need more training, and I will train you some more next week."_ Hux repeats, down to even the stutter to which makes Ben roll his eyes in exasperation.

"You will clean yourself. You will not remember what I'm doing to you…. right now."

" _I will clean myself. I will not remember what you are doing to me… right now."_

As if handling a wild animal, Ben hesitantly lets go of the man's wrist, willing all his mental strength to keep him still, kneeling at the spot enough time for him to scramble back a few steps. When Hux doesn't move, Ben waves an impatient hand until he finally does stand upright, and walks away. And when he finally leaves the premises, Ben nearly collapses onto the floor and lets himself catch up to the panic that had been welling up in his chest this whole time. He wipes the blood and winces as his hand brushes against his bruising cheek.

Stupid,  _detestable_ man; if he hadn't been good as Ben's  _experiment_ , he would have tried to be rid of him long ago. The hate doesn't waver from his veins, and he would rather gladly have Hux under the heel of his boot; he can boast and belittle Ben all he wants, calling him weak along the process, physically breaking him along the way if he so wished… but it doesn't change that Ben has  _this_ advantage at least. These encounters always had a price; it takes a mental toll on him, rendering nearly unconscious sometimes, and even almost having been  _caught._ But this… these  _skills_ were worth the trouble; it had only been through sheer accident that Ben had realized that this was something within his abilities. The blunt hilt of Hux's sword had come very close to bashing him on the head when he'd been down, three months in their training, and out of sheer instinct,  _panic_ , the boy held up a hand — _not unlike the first time he'd been caught in such a vulnerable, advantageous moment;_ Hux had been pushed back with a force unlike anything else, seemingly by the very air alone, and promptly knocked into a wall. Ben could only think of Gidrog, and how she'd been clutching dearly at her neck, turning purple and screaming something about being like  _Him_. But he didn't want anyone else to know; he'd rushed to the man's side, checking for a  _sign_ that he was still alive,  _anything_ at all, and after Hux had opened his eyes, he'd come to realize that he was unresponsive until Ben started asking questions only to receive the questions repeated as a response. It didn't always work, much less so at first, yet the times it did Ben would progress just a little tiny bit.

He's panting, and it takes everything in him not to…  _explode_ or something. So he simply doesn't and instead, does what he always does at the end of these experiments; and he takes on a sitting position, shutting his eyes and ears off to the world around him. He swears that he hears  _something_  and even  _feels_ a flicker of movement beside him, but when he finally finds the resolve to turn his head with weary eyes towards  _that familiar corridor,_  there is nothing. He pretends not to be disappointed, and instead has an urge to try and choke Hux again. He can practice on him some more the next morning; the thought  _almost_ makes his lips quirk.

Almost.

**( &. )**

He isn't so afraid of the dark anymore.

Ben hadn't meant to fall asleep, and he stirs mid-snore at the newfound uncomfortable sensation aching his back thanks to the wooden arm-rests on the red-velvet cushioned chair. Though he's still, by definition  _lanky_ and  _small_ , he's a growing boy; he's growing like a weed each and everyday, and his noodle arms and legs are starting to outgrow most chairs in his own vicinity and his bed. His eyes squint through the darkness, peering at the pale moonlight as light thunder and hard water droplets splatter against his window. For the longest time, he'd remember feeling  _scared_  of being alone; now, he simply craves it. He revels in every creak of wood, every drop of rain, every hit of thunder. This study is his own sanctuary, his private room that  _he_ found and no one seems to know of. It was his late Grandfather's. Lethargically, his head tilts to the side, eyes easing away any notion of sleep as he stretches, satisfied with the  _pop_ and  _crack_ his back does. He flinches when he tries to yawn, remembering the wounds he's sporting like a champion;  _like a winner,_ almost, and the sheer thought makes him let out a strangled sob right out of his throat, and he forcefully restricts it. He reaches toward the ceiling, fingers spreading until his whole hand, wrist and shoulder ache; the only passage of time he has is the pendulum clock off to the side. He doesn't bother looking to it; he doesn't care. Nobody would be looking for him, anyway, and nobody  _has_ said anything in the last year about it. He made sure of that. The boy shuffles, carefully moving so that he sits upright and makes himself stand despite the pain buckling into his knees. He moves closer to the old desk, right beside the window; pasty, now calloused hands lay flat on the surface, feeling every ridge and every particle of dust. Never once did he bother to wipe away the grime; everything here made him just a little less lonely when he found it around the time he started his training. The presence of his Grandfather is all he needs. "…. Hux beat me again," he murmurs through a tightened windpipe, the edges of his lips rising as his tone shifts into something nearly  _prideful_ , like his Grandfather would be  _proud._ "So I… put him in his place. He never knows what hits him." His eyes land on old parchment, sticking out from the corner of a book like an invitation, and he wonders why he's only noticed this until now. "I… hear things, sometimes. I see things too, shadows lurking and hunching; is that you, Grandfather? Are you trying to talk to me, finally?" The pang of disappointment doesn't fail to rise from his chest, but he squelches it down with more idle conversation. He tugs the edge of the parchment; it's a blank slate. By force of habit, he looks around, eyes wide and mischievous. "I haven't told anyone about this place; nobody knows I found  _The one-and-only Lord Vader's study._ I make sure of it. The King doesn't bother much,"  _he'd better not,_  "...and something tells me he wouldn't want to anyway." These are the times he likes to pretend that if he turns around, he'll see something; a ghost, a majestic figure looking to him with pride, as if he matters. He never does, but  _persistence_ is beginning to be his middle name. He swallows nervousness down, and shakily reaches for pen and possibly dried ink, eyes twinkling with unshed tears. The scratch of the sharp quill on the parchment nearly tears a hole and makes him hold back a flinch. "What would you write in here? Did you keep a diary? Manifestos? Stories? How can I be like you?  _Teach_ me…!  _Appear to me!_ _ **Talk**_ _to me!_ "

The bundle of nervousness he'd previously swallow down forms into anxiety and resurfaces into bile at the back of his throat. The walls seem a bit too close now, the lack of light seems  _just_ a bit darker, and the rain seems a bit too familiar. Lightning and thunder roar, illuminating the entirety of the room for a few moments; he'd been shaking too much, and the bottle of ink he'd found had spilled on the desk. The quill is nearly destroyed, torn in his vice grip as he stands to hold himself together; but the lack of his Grandfather's response is not what has him shaken. It's the movement at the far end of the corner, near the bookshelf that has him staring, muscles in his jaw twitching anxiously in anticipation, in  _familiarity._ " _Who's in here!?"_ he yelps, but takes on a defensive and  _deadly_ stance, ready to pounce even as his heart  _roars_ against his ears. It's not his Grandfather, he  _knows_ this; it simply  _can't_ be. It has to be one of the servants,  _Hux_ or even The King himself. Like a wire pulled taut, Ben remains still, eyes flickering to everywhere in the room, quill all but  _destroyed_ in his grasp. "This isn't  _funny!_ Show yourself, Hux!" His teeth bare at the name, and he hauls the oil lamp that lay just beside the inky mess he'd made. At the shuffle of movement,  _at the sound of the door creaking,_ he lunges, running with all the anger, all the bitterness and all the energy he possesses. He can't  _see,_ and he knows that this… this doesn't make  _sense,_ but he  _feels_ it; he  _feels_ a presence. Even though he can't  _see_ , and though he should be  _able_ to see if someone is rummaging through this small study, he  _knows_ he isn't alone. He collides and topples the chair over, ready to hurl the lamp; he makes his way to the entrance, gasping,  _fierce_ and determined. With a heavy fist, he bangs against the door, uncaring to the blaring pain against his knuckles as he leans against the heavy entrance and looks at everything in the room. He can still…  _feel_ it; like a scurrying animal, he  _knows_ whatever presence he feels  _is in this very room._ Moving, running for dear life. He wretches himself away from the door and kicks the other standing chair; uncaring and  _craving_ survival, closure.

Ben's eyes finally — _finally_  land on a shadow, and he  _almost_ throws the lamp had he not  _stared_ just a second longer. Lighting illuminates the room all over again, and there's that  _familiar tug_ from his chest, pulling him closer as his scowl slowly falls from his face. Brown eyes widen and offending arm falls with each passing second, the lamp falling heavily onto the floor.

Wide hazel eyes, scruffy messy mop of light brown hair, and dirt smudges on pudgy cheeks all peer at him like he's the devil himself.

Ben's mouth gapes and shuts like a fool's; he's been craving nothing more than to be  _frightening,_ imposing and menacing to anyone he comes across, for even at this age, everyone regards him like he's a  _joke_. But this is… not… what he likes  _at all._ He hasn't seen her since that night,  _in over three years now_. He doesn't know how he  _knows_ it's her, the small baby that practically made him smitten when he was ten, but he does; he remembers her, clear as day, as if he'd only seen her just yesterday. She barely reaches his  _calves,_  and Ben is suddenly aware just how  _monstrously_ tall he must be  _despite_ Hux's condescending attitude. Yes.. Ben is  _tall_  for his age, but it never seemed to reflect for all intents and purposes; until now. He doesn't move; she's so  _tiny._  He gulps in trepidation, familiar words echoing in his head.  _"Don't worry; I'll still talk to you. I'll protect you."_ He's a bold-faced  **liar;** here he stands, in position about to hurl a  _lamp_ at a three year old child. She's hunched over, the slow and deliberate falling of his arm does nothing to placate her, and though thankfully she doesn't  _cry_ , her lip quivers. Can she speak?  _Do_ children at this age speak? Ben swallows the lump in his throat, and he wants nothing more than to hurl himself against the nearest fire pit. Both arms are to his sides, and he looks down at Rey; she makes no move to go backward or run, staying still like sheep in the slaughter.

"H-hello..." his voice croaks, aching in an unreleased sob; her lip quivers in response. But not  _once_ do her shining doe eyes move away from his, like she's…  _waiting_ for something. "Rey..." he says, voice cracking at the name. "Rey, it's me…  _Ben_." He doesn't know what he expects in that moment; something magical, perhaps, instant recognition and  _affection_ , that she would  _run_ into his arms and laugh and gurgle. She takes a step back and trips, a dull landing on her rear; and yet, she still doesn't cry. He exhales a shaky sigh, hanging his head like a man being hung in the gallows, and he's filled with  _shame_ and  _guilt._ "Do you not… remember me?"  _Idiot,_ he chastises himself,  _she's a_ _ **child**_ _._ He looks to her again and, in  _truly_ seeing her a second time despite the darkness, he  _sees_ her clothes; nothing more than torn cream fabric with dirt and her face even dirtier, hair askew and cut unevenly, he  _sees_ a child living just to survive. He has so many questions; where had she  _gone?_ Why couldn't he see her all this time? A muscle in his jaw ticks, and he wonders for the very first time,

— _is she real?_

But the thought quickly dissipates, "Help," her little voice breaks through and makes his ears perk. Ben looks to her, eyes wide and  _careful and—_

"...What..?" he asks, voice hoarse from wanting to cry. He kneels, slowly and carefully, aware and not wanting to invade the little girl's space. He clears his throat, "What… what do you need…?"

"Help," she repeats, simple and innocent, suddenly empowered and almost unafraid; "Ben,  _help._ " Something in his heart  _flutters_ at the mention of his name; not  _Bah,_ but  _Ben._ She holds out a small, dirty hand and he can see now upon closer inspection, he sees that there's  _blood_ and he nearly  _panics_ because  _did he_ _ **do**_ _that to her? Just now? No, how could he have when he was just—_ his eyes flicker down, his own hands shaking,  _afraid_ to touch her and she couldn't  _possibly_ want any help from  _him —and_ _ **yet,**_ though she stares at him through thinly-veiled fear, her doe eyes, wordlessly trusting enough to want him to help her with her wound. " _mmhurtss..!"_ she grumbles, and he can see that she's obviously  _nervous,_ but she still wants  _him_ to help. Ben swallows the thick bile welling up in his throat at the mere  _thought_  because if she's  _asking him, trusting_ _ **him,**_ _a supposed omen child— then what monsters has she dealt with?_

He can only catch himself after letting out the words against his better judgment; "What happened?" he asks, willing for his voice not crack further; to assert  _authority._ "Why does it hurt? Who hurt you?" He can only remember how Gidrog had spoken to him, and he does his best to replicate that; fearing in the back of his mind that she may  _cry,_ and it's  _not_ an incident he wants to repeat. "Who  _hurt_ you, Rey?"

Rey only blinks. Once. Twice. Her lip quivers even more, and her hazel flicker to him and to her hand; she gives a little shrug and shakes her hand, exasperated. "Ben,  _help._ It's  _bleeding!_ _It hurts!_ _"_ She has the same accent that Hux does; but in her it sounds  _odd_  and  _new._ Curious enough for him to tilt his head, and nearly smitten enough to not find it so annoying.

He almost scoffs, quickly becoming exasperated himself. "Alright. Let me see." His knowledge on bandaging wounds is still limited, but he's not naive to the basics. He tries to ignore the sense of surprise that surges through when the little girl  _lets_ him clasp his hands over her own, and he tries even harder to ignore the she steps a little closer. He both likes and  _hates_ just how  _easily_ she trusts him; his jaw clenches at what  _possibilities_ that could open doors to. He marvels at the soft skin; no longer plump and new just out of the womb, or caressed with blankets. Her skin is still rather soft, still new; there's dirt and grime slick under her frail little nails, and he can count every little scar and trace over her veins. It looks like she fell and had tried breaking her fall, putting the weight of her trip on her palms, scratching her hands raw, more so this hand than the other. It's not a deep or serious injury, but it's still pretty ugly. For a new little child who's still had to yet suffer from all the world's depravity, it hurts  _him_ to see the raw red and pink meat  _flash_ almost inappropriately and so  _starkly_ against her skin, angry and  _scorching_. With ease, he tears the sleeve of his own gray tunic and wraps it around her small wound, tying it for security and patting it for extra measure. "There," he says, "all done."

She looks in  _wonder_ , like she's never been tended to in such a way; he doesn't expect a thank you, but the way her face brightens is more than enough. She studies her hand, poking the fabric. Ben nearly stumbles the moment her eyes flicker to his, and he holds in a breath. Her eyes are just as bold as he remembered; flashes of when he first encountered her in the basket three years ago on his tenth birthday flash in his head. Rey thrusts her arm back at him, near his mouth. "Kiss it," her face is  _set_ , and she won't take  _no_ for an answer.

But Ben… is very confused. "I…  _what?"_

She says it again, taking a small step to him. "Kiss it and make it better."

"No… no Rey, that's not… that's not how that  _works_. It's a  _wound_ ; kisses don't heal  _wounds._ " His stupid ears are getting red and he's getting  _flustered,_ the tips of his ears warming up from the sheer emotion of being put on the spotlight _._ "Don't move it around too much. Leave it  _alone._ "

" _Kiss it!_ " she says, louder this time, her little brows furrowing and she actually  _stomps._ "You  _have_ to! Kiss it Ben!"

Thirteen year old Ben has never had a child demand such a thing, from him no less, and he has no point of reference to work with; only his own wit and limited adolescent-boy intelligence. "No! Rey, stop  _mmphj—!?"_ Rey had thrust the back of her hand against his mouth, forcefully making him taste  _dirt_ and  _salt_ and his own  _sweat_ from his fabric, all in the middle of his sentence when his mouth was  _open._  His error still remains with how to act around children; having had no experience in socialization, or even  _conversations_ with anyone his age.

Satisfied with Ben's 'kiss', Rey pulls her hand back with a smile and gives a sloppy kiss to her own hand, right where Ben had 'placed' his own lips. She then looks to him, and tilts her head. "Do I kiss you now? Does it hurt?"

 _Oh. His black eye._ He catches her little forearms as she steps close, holding her in place as he tries to take on a demanding and authoritative tone. "Rey.  _No!"_ In reality, she's probably the most intense thing that Ben has encountered thus far. He catches her hand as she tries,  _deliberately,_ to pat his face, and Ben is utterly confused. "Rey… Rey,  _stop!"_ His voice is uncertain, failing to exude authority, and it does nothing to deter her. He sarcastically wonders if Hux might know something about children and then quickly vanishes the thought as soon as it comes, shadows darkening his brown eyes into something else entirely. This secret —  _Rey_  would have to be pried from his lifeless hands before he'd let anything happen to her, or anyone so much as hurt her.

In that moment, Ben decides  _they can only try._

**( &. )**

_**NEXT SEGMENT:** **005. as they burn the mercy out of me** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter; who's ready for FLUFF? And more PLOT?


	5. (I) as they burn the mercy out of me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fic promo: https://ezfa.tumblr.com/post/173964053015/evanescent-masterpost-a-reylo-fanfiction  
> Bother me on Ezfa @ tumblr

**A/N:** _Plot_ _advancement?_ _Fluff?! WHAT IS THIS MADNESS?!_

**( &. )**

****  
**ໟ** **.~( PART I )** **~.** **ໟ  
** _**005\. as they burn the mercy out of me** _

**SHE APPEARS INCESSANTLY** now, not at all like three years ago. Rey appears to him almost  _daily._  But Ben is nothing if not learning to  _adapt,_  so he just  _observes._ What pleasantly surprises him the most is that the little girl is absolutely  _unperturbed_ by his presence; as if he's nothing more than a pretty painting on the wall, or a flower off to the side; she's actually called him  _pretty_ many times. He is woken up in the middle of the night —this brings  _flashes_ of something else entirely,  _that one night on his birthday, the screaming, the running_ — when he  _feels_ a shuffle ripple throughout his mattress; Ben is only starting to drift to sleep, so he doesn't think much on the first few movements at first, and he closes his eyes, willing himself to succumb to the sweet arms of  _slumber._ But there's more movement, and then he hears multiple  _thuds_ and it makes his own body jolt. He acts on pure instinct, and he tears the sheets away and leaps to a crouched position, adrenaline pumping, heart raw and—  _ah,_ yes, this is also starting to become a problem; Rey appears to him, not only almost daily, but in random intervals of time throughout the day.

She's jumping on his bed; well, she's not so much  _jumping_ as she is bending her knees and catapulting into the air with one leg _._ Ben doesn't know if he's more irritated or amused at being woken up; but  _annoyance_ and something like  _over-protectiveness_ seeps out of his ears like smoke. " _Rey,_ " he half-whispers half-yells, "… _stop_ that. You're not letting me sleep." She ignores him; not maliciously, her gaze locked below her in concentration as she continues to 'jump'. Her little lips are pursed, cheeks puffed and she can't seem to jump high enough to her liking. "Rey," Ben repeats, voice raspy and lull —already wiping the sleep from his eyes anyway, knowing this is yet another pass he's going to give her, "Stop it. It's time to  _sleep._ " He always approaches his words with caution and even weariness; he still doesn't know anything about talking to others, much less children, but he treats the only way he possibly knows how; like how he'd like to be spoken to.

"Nuh-uh," Ben winces at the squeak of his mattress, "I'm  _busy_."

Ben blinks, unimpressed. "Busy," he echoes hollowly. "Busy doing  _what?"_

 _Thud._ She  _almost_ jumped for real this time, but the fact seems to frustrate her even more and her face scrunches up in distaste. "Jumping."

"You're not jumping."

"Yes I am."

"Well, you're  _jumping_ on  _my_ bed."

She huffs at yet another failed attempt, and pouts even more before trying  _again._ She responds with a "...Yah," like it's the most obvious and unimportant thing in the world.

His eye twitches; she's such a  _simple_ thing.  _Yes. No. Maybe. Okay._ Simple and no-nonsense responses that always leave him with even  _more_ questions swirling around his head. He offers no verbal counter for that, and after a few moments of watching her,  _noticing_ the livelihood of her eyes and her now-healing hand, he huffs out a breath. Rey pays no mind, but when he shuffles closer, arms outstretched —stiff, but open— she tilts her head. He doesn't know what possible being possesses him in that moment; but each second that passes is one that he doesn't look back to. His face is deathly serious, if not determined, his mouth set into a thin line as if focused in one of his training his sessions with Hux. Ben motions her with a nod of his head; "Come here." She blinks owlishly at him, and he tilts his head as a response. "Do you trust me?" She shrugs, and he pretends that  _doesn't_ bring a pang of something  _hurting_ in his chest, so he tries again. "I'll make you jump  _really_ high."  _I'll make you fly._

At that, Rey's eyes brighten in that familiar way, and Ben can feel that  _other_ familiar rise of his chest, like his own troubles are melting off of him. "Really high?!" She squeals, echoing him. "Yeah?!" Ben's hands practically encompass the entirety of her shoulder blades, and he tries to be  _extra_ aware of the strengths he exerts,  _especially_ when it concerns her as he travels his hold onto her waist. He looks around his surroundings, making sure that no one is around the vicinity of his chambers, the small warmth that had gathered on the tips of his ears slowly decrease as Ben wills himself to  _relax, because no one is watching._ And  _for just a second_ he closes his eyes and—  _he lets himself smile just a little bit._ He hauls her up the air, gently,  _like a treasure,_ and he revels in the sound of her  _laughter_ — _her laughter. Because of him._ He sets her down onto the mattress, repeating the act to give her the impression that she's jumping. He's  _glad_ to notice that the grueling training regime is actually providing results; he can carry her easily. "Do it  _again_!" She squeals in delight,  _"Again!_ Do it again!" He fights a grin, failing, as he tries not to laugh himself at her genuine response. He kept lifting her and setting her down until, finally and abruptly, she began to gradually feel lighter and lighter until she slowly dissipated from view. It's then that Ben realized as his mouth set into a hard frown that he was  _grinning_. He wills himself to not clench his fists and feel  _bitter_.

The next day, without the aid of his powers, Ben Solo managed to aim a very hard punch to Hux's jaw and promptly, knocked him out.

**( &. )**

"Your mind is  _elsewhere_. Pay  _attention;_ I said  _do it again!"_

Ben resists the urge to growl, and the words  _my mind wasn't elsewhere when I_ _ **shut**_ _your stupid mouth just two days ago_ die on the back end of his throat as he opts to narrow his eyes instead. He wipes his mouth despite there being no blood or salivation; a growing habit that shows when Ben is is becoming increasingly annoyed. He ignores the narrow of Hux's eyes, and he takes a deep breath to resume his defensive posture and, with all his might, lunges with his sword and strikes against the training dummy.

Hux's lips twitch and exhales a sharp breath at the display. "...Better.  _Again._ Distribute your weight  _evenly_ , not just your  _back,_ your Highness." He spits the last word out with mock reverence, hand rubbing against the sore spot on his lower jaw and winces at the sharp pain. He must have hit bumped it without knowing; though, Hux is certain that he would have remembered such massive pain. His mouth hurts at every other word he speaks, but he pushes forward despite the pain. At the sight, a smirk almost spills, but Ben forces himself to focus, ignoring the beads of sweat the dampen across his forehead. "Keep at it; perhaps even the King and his lone entourage will even commend your progress when they come by later." This makes Ben's insides  _freeze_ all too suddenly, and he feels like vomiting, sword pointed mid-air. This immediately captures Hux's attention, making him snap to after a beat of silence. "I didn't say to—" But young Ben isn't at all interested in his trainer's less than cordial attitude right now. The young boy turns sharply, nearly giving himself whiplash as he tries to regain his breathing.

"His  _what?"_

The corner of the redhead's lip twitch again, and he clears his throat, regarding Ben as if he's not exactly sure how to proceed but not any less annoyed at the sudden interest. "What,  _what_?"

Ben nearly physically deflates as he blows his sweaty curls out of his eyes. "I  _meant_ , what do you mean by  _that_?" Hux is stoic for a few moments, and it makes Ben wonder if he accidentally froze him. "You said  _entourage_ ; since when does Bestellung's King have an  _entourage_?" And in that moment, what makes the whole conversation seem even  _more_ ludicrous, something  _like_ pity washes over Hux's eyes, and it makes Ben  _squirm_.

Gently, the older man intakes some air, so slight that Ben almost misses the fact. " _Keeper of the King's Conscience,_ your Majesty," he says simply, as if that's more than enough for an explanation and it makes Ben wants to smack his own head against the expensive walls.  _For the_ _ **love**_ _of—_

He can't help the frustrated words that spill exasperatedly from his lips, "Since when does the  _King_ function  _with help?!_ " Ben is no fool; even at the age of thirteen, despite his heavy sheltered and secluded life, he  _tried_ really hard to not be ignorant of his own Kingdom. He's not  _stupid_ ; how he stayed up so late in Lord Vader's study every chance he got in the past three years to  _read his history._ He's not  _ignorant_ of what this Kingdom stood for, of what a powerful army it once possessed or what reputation it had. That's what he tries to tell himself, anyway. Still too young, Ben doesn't still quite understand  _everything_ , and where he once thought there was nothing but lack of ignorance on his end, now there's  _nothing_ ; he's a ten year old boy all over again and he  _loathes_ it. He repeats the title in his mind;  _Keeper of The King's Conscience._ He blows a stray hair from his face, his eyes darkening; what utter  _nonsense._ For a second,  _almost for just one second_ , he finds himself spilling the title  _Vader_ to Hux, as if they're indeed having some amicable conversation, and his jaw clamps shut instead. He doesn't want to reveal to Hux that he's not some lost  _child_ who knows nothing, but he can't help the curiosity that rolls off. "We don't even have a  _Church_ ; Bestellung has always been ruled under an  _Autocracy_ not a  _Monarchy._ Where did  _he_ even  _get_ such a person for the job." Ben can't help the frustration that rolls off of him, and  _yet,_ even  _he_ knows that he only has a  _half_ understanding of proper terminology that he spits out, having it seen in books and whatever little he's paid attention to in his study sessions.

To make it all the more embarrassing, after a beat of silence, surprise, realization and then finally  _amusement_  all flash across Hux's features, and Ben grits his teeth. "Ah, so you  _do_ pay attention to your history, your Majesty?" His fingers twitch, making his grasp on the hilt of his sword falter; he doesn't like Hux's sleazy tone, regarding him like he's a something lesser; more so than usual. "After your  _birth_ , His Royal Sire…  _changed_ methods since the passing of His Late Great Sire; Bestellung's ruling was never to  _remain_ under such… near Tyrannical rule." He says nothing more beyond that.

After all, it's all but forbidden to speak  _Vader's_ name out and full history detail in the open in front of the Young Prince. Surely to  _protect_ him or something idiotic, probably.

If Ben were less of an old bitter soul trapped in a young body, perhaps he would have laughed;  _if only they knew how much he really knew about his Grandfather and how much he look_ _s_ _up to him._ Yet, what confuses Ben the most in watching the man speak is that he almost seems…  _wistful_ at the fact, and he doesn't know  _what_ to feel with that. "Oh," he says simply, but it  _still_ doesn't explain this… this  _person_ helping his father; they dealt with oversea affairs, and it makes Ben want to tear his hair out because  _what affairs? They're in the middle of_ _ **nowhere**_ _and_ _ **yes**_ _Ben_ _ **does**_ _know how secluded they are and—_ His fingers twitch again, and he has to tighten his hands into fists to stop the fidgeting; his mind goes to the words that Gidrog had all but spit to him that night.  _Monster._ He bites his lower lip, and his gaze hardens with resolution. No; that's where everyone is  _wrong_.

Vader hadn't been a  _monster_ ; he had been  _misunderstood._

Just like him.

Ben misses the intent gaze that Hux gives him when he delivers a fierce blow that rattles the battle dummy. "The King will be coming soon." The boy doesn't respond and it doesn't take a narrow of eyes to see how more aggressive his blows are becoming against the doll. It's a very peculiar sight, but it quickly loses it's charm and Hux finds himself rolling his eyes irritatingly. "By which I mean sometime this next week or so, Young Sire."

This does make the boy pause, for only a second, and instead opts to tackle the dummy this time. "Like I  _care."_ he huffs out. He doesn't want to get  _involved_ in whatever his father's affairs are; it's not like he's been eager these past thirteen years to involve his son in anything. The question of  _why are you bothering telling me this_ and  _what is it that you know about this whole that I don't_ almost spills out in the open; but Ben forces his tongue to remain still.

"I'm sure you don't. Obviously."

**( &. )**

He's noticing a slight pattern _._

Each and every time, one way or another, she's hurt. Little Rey is a smart, feisty little thing; Ben hadn't thought much of it at first, thinking that perhaps the bruises he'd seen her sport in her hands, in her elbows and her arms were consequences of whatever rambunctious activities children her age were naturally succumbed to. He hadn't understood, not did he even try, for when he was her age he'd done little else than to get up from his bed to go to the bathroom or change clothes. Even now, his own bruising and sweat is due to training, not because it's  _fun_. When she appears to him around at sundown _,_ his gaze softens  _just for her_ like it always does; until his eyes land on a purple marks that are a stark contrast to the rest of her. He makes his way closer to her, and Rey —like  _always_ \- regards him with nothing more than comforting and  _trusting indifference_ ; she's still much too young, Younger than him anyway; young enough that she has to look to him for guidance and it's more than he could ever ask for. Still much too caught up with catching his breath, Ben sits near the edge of his bed and onto the floor; he imagines he doesn't smell pleasant in the least, but Rey doesn't seem to either care or notice. He tries to  _banish_ the thought of what he said to her once;  _I think you have to marry me,_ and he clears his throat. "Rey," he simply says, and he is  _slightly_ content when she half turns her head to his direction, her focus much more intent on the toy in her hands. It takes him a second to realize it's the pair of golden dice her little fingers are tangled with.

He means to ask her  _why_ she has purple markings on her forearms and wrists, as if someone had grabbed her quite roughly, but he doesn't get the chance; "You're sad," the simple, yet powerful words that are  _so very perceptive_ make his vision focus intently on her. He blinks to make sure he hadn't imagined it, because little Rey isn't even  _looking_ at him. "Why are you sad?" Such a simple question, and such loaded answers, but Ben isn't exactly  _sure_ what he's feeling right at this moment, and he wonders if  _really, is there anything I can't hide? Even from himself?_

He swallows thickly, his throat bobbing. "I'm not," and really now,  _when had this become about him, anyway?_

 _This_ time, she does look up, dirtied plushy lips doing that weird little side quirk whenever she's trying to understand what he's saying or when she's frustrated; but it's her  _eyes_ that have his lips clamped up, like always. Bright, bold and much too curious for her own good. "Yes," is all she says, still coolly staring at him until her attention dissipates from him and back to her task to disentangle her fingers from the golden thread.

But Ben, still very much the child that he is,  _bristles_ at the minuscule act of anyone disagreeing with him; he  _has_ to have the last word, it's quickly becoming his nature. " _No_ Rey, I'm not." Her ring finger is turning purple; the golden thread having tangled almost neatly and the two dice nestling perfectly on top of it like an actual ring. He rolls his eyes and gestures for her to come forward. She says nothing as he meticulously gets to work.

"Ben, are you gonna cry?"

He stills for a second, and,  _almost as if she read his very soul,_ he has to fight against that very urge; his throat tightens. He shakes his head, recoiling slightly,  _exasperatedly_ in defeat as he rubs a hand to his forehead " _No._ " He doesn't mean for it to come out scathingly or even pained, but it does despite his best efforts. In that moment, he doesn't blame her to recoil or cry; he even expects it. But when he looks up, dreading either reaction, he is more than surprised to find her looking at him with brimming curiosity. Like she doesn't really understand; he should have expected that too. He clears his throat, trying to keep himself balanced, in harmony. "No, Rey; I'm not sad, and I'm not going to cry. A prince never cries."  _A King doesn't shed a single tear even as the weight of the world crushes his bones._

"Why?"

He nearly sputters at such a simple, yet blissfully ignorant, and  _ridiculous_  inquiry. Whats even more ridiculous is the fact that he finds himself wanting to spill everything to her; as if she would  _understand,_ maybe even  _help._ He wants to tell her of his Father, of Lord Vader, of how he himself wants to be  _King_ so he can prove everyone wrong despite having very limited knowledge on what it all really means. He wants to ask her why she appears to him and he wants to ask  _himself_ why he doesn't care if she does and  _none of it matters_ _ **anyway**_ _because she's his only distraction and otherwise he'd be_ _ **so**_ _alone and—_ His larger fingers already finished with disentanglement of the golden thread, he lets them linger; not quite greedily taking her hands in his, but not quite letting go either. It brings satisfaction to know that the child obviously trusts him not to step away. "Because Princes have to be strong; crying is not strong." Rey says nothing, and he doesn't expect her to. She doesn't understand; but that's alright, because he can teach her. "My Grandfather didn't cry," a blunt afterthought rather than a thorough answer, and he says it more to himself rather than her. For some odd reason, he doesn't want to say Vader's name out loud; his mind goes to that one instance where she had cried upon seeing his plague mask. When she's older,  _not_ _ **if**_ _but_ _ **when**_ _,_ he'll tell her. He'll tell her  _everything_ ; she will understand.

Rey tilts her head, her nose scrunching up. " _Whassat?_ "

"What's what?"

" _Ggggrrranffer."_ The word is too hard for her to pronounce and Ben would have laughed if he had ever been allowed to.

"Grandfather." He says a little slower this time, hoping she catches on.

"Granfer."

Eh. Good enough.

"A grandfather is the father of your father." He says simply, eyebrow raised.

Rey tilts her head and blinks. "What's a…  _faher?_ " His stomach  _drops,_ and his mouth becomes absolutely dry because… because  _he remembers_ and he can put two and two together and  _Oh_ _ **Lord,**_ _how_ _ **stupid**_ _is he—_ Ben gulps and he remains nearly frozen in place; Rey's stare doesn't waver and if her little furrowed brow is any indication. she's getting even  _more_ restless. She repeats it again and even tugs his wrist. "Ben?  _Bennnnn,_ " Why can't he ever be  _smart_ around Rey? He clears his throat and he tries to once again exude the authority that he doesn't naturally have. But Ben never gets the chance to speak in that moment, because there's a harsh knock in his door in that moment, and it makes everything in his soul freeze.

The door to his room opens, and there, in all his humble glory is the King himself. "Hello son," the King's voice is hesitant, weary and even  _weak_.

Ben's mind goes to various places in the next few seconds, but it also takes him another few to realize several things: One, Rey doesn't react to any of the sounds or activity that bustles in  _his_ space. Two, his father is  _much_ older than he's ever looked and is…  _shorter_ than Ben last remembers and  _Three,_ nobody else can see Rey like he can, because the King doesn't even  _look_ to her direction. Despite all this information, his body is still in  _fight_ mode, muscles tight and coiled, and when Ben turns to try and  _hide_ Rey, he finds that she's already gone. His jaw works tightly with his mouth as he puffs one of his cheeks; his left eye twitches too, and he counts to three. Slowly, he turns to the King's direction, the words  _I want to be_ _ **alone**_ rest on the base of his tongue, bitter at having made Rey disappear from view. The sight of his gray-haired father and bags underneath his eyes deter him with pity for only a second before he mentally decides that he  _doesn't_ want to see him and—

His eyes land on a stranger. And of course with  _blue eyes_.

"Son, there's someone I want you to meet; this is Luke." The name is more than enough for Ben to  _tense_ almost abnormally, because he's  _heard_ of that name before  _somewhere_ and his mind goes to hid Grandfather's  _letters_ and this person is— "Your Uncle." But he  _still_ doesn't understand because hadn't he  _disappeared and what is he doing_ _ **here**_ _and with_ _ **Father**_ _and—_ He turns to see Luke's gaze on the spot beside him,  _where Rey had been,_  before his gaze lands on Ben himself. He doesn't like the man's expression; skillfully blank and purposefully schooled. He knows because it's the very same look Ben wears with everyone else.

"It's so nice to finally meet you, Ben; I've heard so much about you."

**( &. )**

_**NEXT SEGMENT: I spoke as a child**_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More of a short chapter to get the plot going; three more (hopefully) left in Ben's arc. I'm itching to introduce even more good stuff.


	6. (I) I spoke as a child

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fic promo: https://ezfa.tumblr.com/post/173964053015/evanescent-masterpost-a-reylo-fanfiction  
> Bother me on Ezfa @ tumblr

**A/N:** _M_ _ore Luke_ _! More plot! More fluff! Yeet!_

**( &. )**

**ໟ** **.~( PART I )** **~.** **ໟ  
** _**006\. I spoke as a child** _

**BEN'S FIRST WORDS** to his never-before-seen uncle immediately upon introduction are: "Whatever my father is paying you to be here, I'll pay double for you to  _leave._ "

It doesn't work.

Though Ben has never seen, ironically enough, a proper portrait of Lord Vader, he always wanted to believe that the man exuded power when he was alive and healthy; he only went by what everyone spoke of the Late King, and so he had a certain image ingrained in his head since he was a babe. The man he sees standing next to his father right now? He exudes no power, no authority,  _no_ _nothing_ _._ With the worn clothes and shaggy blonde hair, wrinkled  _tired_ visage and a jaw that is all but practically  _slack_ in boredom, he doesn't look even remotely related to anyone who could have been royalty, even once upon a time. The  _only thing_ that may suggest  _a hint_ of some noble blood is the emerald cut, vibrant sapphire-blue diamond stone encased in a silver-lined, crystal-embedded necklace, hugging the gem as if it were a pair of hands. The boy narrows at the necklace with disdain, and poison in his eyes. His uncle's blue eyes look him over like he has Ben all figured out.

Ben hates Luke already.

Perhaps he would be a lot more enthusiastic this whole…  _situation_  if it didn't diminish whatever  _privacy_ he has against the King. After his father dropped the ' _You_ _r_ _Uncle will be your_ _remain here for the time being, he's mainly helping me out and, occasionally, you as well. Think of him as your_ _shadow; he will teach you everything you've been wanting to about the responsibilities of running a kingdom._ _Think of him as your Keeper; your right hand man, your_ _Advisor_ _',_  it had taken everything in him not to self-combust _._ No; this  _isn't_ what he wants; how did he even  _come_ to such a conclusion?  _Oh,_ and of course his father leaves him;  _again!_ And with his beloved 'uncle' after  _specifically_ making it clear that he  _hadn't_ wanted to leave his room. As it all turns out, Ben is anything  _than less_ excited, and so, he finds himself itching to punch the training dummy and he has to resist the urge to roam his eyes toward the inside of his dimly lit castle and find some way to  _escape_ — But Luke leaves no room for discussion and has  _absolutely_ no sense of  _personal space;_ something that Ben is all too used to having. "It's nice out today wouldn't you say? Why don't we go outside for a chat? You know, your father told me you're sensitive to the light; do you need your mask?" Said boy wants to roll his eyes; is it not obvious from his clenched jaw and tight fists that he wants  _nothing_ to do with him? He  _refuses_ to acknowledge the mask;  _nobody_ talks about the mask. He wants to be left  _alone_. Much to his irritation and chagrin, Luke  _smiles_ _wistfully._  In that moment, he prefers  _Hux_ to this man; at least with him he  _knows_ what a  _bastard_ he is. But this? He can't tell if Luke is dripping with condescension or amusement, or both; he doesn't like any of the options in the least. "Not much of a talker, are you kid?" They are outside as Luke does nothing more than to observe Ben shoot arrows at wooden barriers.  _PL—unk!_ He had aimed for where the head would be, where they  _eyes_ would be if the wood was a person. If it was Luke. If the man knows this, he doesn't show it, only letting his gaze linger on the now battered arrow. He almost looks like he's going to say something,  _to offer advice on his posture,_ but Ben busies himself reaching for another arrow instead of giving him the chance, determined to give him the cold shoulder indefinitely. "Not even a hair strand shy away from your mother; she was the very same way."

 _PLUNK!_ Direct shot and right on target; a consequence of his surprise rather than purposeful calculation. His eyes are wide and full and he forgets to breathe for a second; he turns to Luke, obvious questions painting his face. Luke smiles at him as if to say  _gotcha_  and right now he utterly  _hates_ himself because did he seriously just  _fall_ for that? He already gave in; no use in shying away now, and so with a puffed out cheek, he reluctantly settles the bow down. "You disappeared," he says simply and then something like  _pride_ warms Luke's eyes for just a moment. It makes Ben feel… vaguely unsettled.

"Ah. So you  _do_ know who I am." Ben snorts at that. "Not as quiet and shy as Han described." It takes him a second to realize  _Han_ is his father; how dreadful. Father and son are so distant that the sheer mention of his name is unfamiliar to Ben.  _Whatever._

"Hardly. Just what I've heard around the castle." Perhaps he tries a little  _too_ hard to be discreet, because Luke looks at him like nothing short of one of the most amateur jester Bestellung has to offer; yet another thing they don't have. In an attempt to shake off the intense gaze of his…  _Uncle,_ Ben huffs and prods the bow quiver fastened to his back; when he finds no more bows to work with, he hangs his head in exasperation, not caring on why he left or why he _didn't_ leave. "Just what you are you  _doing_ here anyway? Bestellung has never  _had_ a  _'Keeper of the King's Conscience'_." What does all this mean? For the longest time, up until this moment, he had always been led to believe that Bestellung still had a semblance of power, but that it operated  _above all else_ , like in the form Vader had been ruling it. He's more than ashamed to admit that, in reality, he has no further concept of his own kingdom whatsoever. Hearing of his father possibly being involved with  _other_ kingdoms and being  _involved_ in other affairs; it doesn't sit  _right_ with him, and it makes him itch all over in sheer discomfort. It means that Bestellung  _isn't_ this fictitious, all powered, all feared Autocracy; it's just… a  _regular_ mundane kingdom. They aren't secluded in the middle of  _nowhere_ because they are feared; it just happened to be their point of location. He gulps almost painfully despite himself; he's been living a sheer fantasy, and he's… disappointed in it all. Do people know of him as the Prince of  _Nothing?_

Luke must have caught wind of his demeanor, because he shifts ever so slightly with a  _twinkle_ in his eyes, like he  _knows_ something. "Me? I'm just here on vacation." He smirks, just a bit; quiet easy to miss if one didn't squint enough. Ben wants to punch his stupid old mug. Maybe he knows that too, but he doesn't show it. "You're very observant, Ben. Intuitive for such a young age." Ben doesn't miss the way he doesn't answer his question.  _Slimy._

"Spare me the banal flattery; I'm not  _dumb_. What do you  _want_? I don't even  _know_ you." Half truth, half frustration and half an effort to ditch his Uncle. "Here to give me some  _sage_ advice on how to run  _my_ Kingdom? Or how about some sparring?  _I don't want a shadow._ " He can't  _help_ the sarcasm the coils with his words; he's winding himself up and he can't seem to really  _stop._ Luke says nothing, as if Ben's words are some ridiculously easy-to-solve puzzle without any complications. It makes Ben want to hurl the stupid, oversized bow and arrow at him and stomp to his room; he wants to punch Hux again or tackle the battle dummy.  _Anything_ but being  _here._

"Your Kingdom, huh?" —and what is  _that_ even supposed to mean? Ben suspects that is not  _sincere pity_ in his tone; and he can clearly see the slight quirk of his lip. Like he's trying not to…  _laugh._ "You're upset. Am I making you upset?"

 _Of course you are!_ He wants to scream, yet he's so  _annoyed_ that he can't even find the proper words to put together a coherent sentence. " _You_...! You're…  _you are—_ " but then it hits him like a giant boulder, and he only has seconds to recuperate. His ears burn bright red, and against his own will, his cheek puffs out in embarrassment. "…. You're  _tooling_ with me."

"It's not exactly  _hard_ ; the last time I had this kind of banter was with Leia when we were children." Something darkens in his sentence, but Ben doesn't  _quite_ understand; he would ask more if he wasn't so focused on the name;  _Leia._ His mother. But before he can even ask or say anything of the matter, Luke beats him to the punch. "I've heard so much about you Ben; your father wasn't exactly  _shy_ in telling me. I'm not  _dumb_ , dear nephew; I know you don't like me," and just  _wow!_ Ben wants to say;  _what possibly gave_ _that_ _away?_

He rolls his eyes, only acknowledging the former part of his statement. "So you've made it  _clear_ to me; what exactly has my— has he— has the  _King_ said about me?" He ignores Luke's arching brow; no doubt befuddled as his title of choice to acknowledge his own father.

"He's said that you're… well, to put it lightly; you're a little… perplexing." At that, Ben just forcefully shrugs his shoulders and he tries  _so very hard_ to expel those particular memories; Gidrog. "Han, your  _father_ , was never the brightest… well, brightest  _anything_ really." This makes Ben's lips  _quirk_ genuinely with someone who  _isn't_ Rey; he feels like he's…  _cheating_ her in a sense, and so he bites his cheek to prevent it, but still, he listens. "It's obvious you two don't… quite see eye to eye. Frankly, even  _I_ didn't expect anything to this magnitude. But then again, it's just like him to take it to such extremes. Not speaking to his own  _son_ for all these years;  _of course._ " Ben figures the last part of his rant is directed more towards his father than it is at him, and in an odd turn of events, Ben feels like he's being  _intrusive._ Did… did his father  _want_ Ben to hear such words from a  _stranger?_ Does he even know? Luke rubs the bridge of his nose and it almost looks like he wants to tear the very skin off instead. "You're angry at him, aren't you?" Ben kicks the dirt beneath them, scuffling his footwear, cheek puffed out and lips jutted out in reluctance. "It's just us now, Ben; Han isn't here to scold you. You can tell me whatever it is that you need to say, I'll listen." And Ben? He  _wants_ to, much to his bitter surprise. He wants to spill everything in this moment; hurl everything at his father for  _ignoring_ him, for being  _absent_ when he needed it the most,  _when Gidrog had_ _ **attacked**_ _him and tried to murder him,_ or whenever Hux would pull his hair or punch him. Or why he had always seemed so reluctant on getting near him the last…  _two times_ he ever tried in his entire life. Is he not  _good_ enough? Is he still too weak? Is he  _that_ intolerable? But he doesn't. He says nothing of what he wants to say in regards to his father, layering it all beneath resentment and annoyance; those are emotions he can deal with, that are  _easier_ to deal with than admit that he's...  _sadly disappointed_ and  _upset_ and  _longing_ — "Or… if you don't want to  _talk_ , you can ask too. I'm sure you have loads of questions for me. You can ask me anything."

Ben latches on to that word, and all negative emotions,  _all the emotions he's bottled up until this point,_ are pushed further down his mind and, instead, he looks up to Luke with heavy and narrow eyes. " _Anything?_ " the question comes out like a whisper, an unsure plea. Luke nods, eyes glinting with possibly wisdom and possibly sincerity and  _something else_ that Ben doesn't catch on to; something he wouldn't catch on to until he was much,  _much_ older. This is better; this isn't dealing with  _Han Solo._ "I can ask you  _anything_ at all?" He asks, just to make sure Luke won't backtrack now.

To the boy's pleasant surprise, the man doesn't. "Anything; you need a companion, don't you? Someone you can talk to and vent to. I'm not the King, I'm not your trainer and I'm not your  _Nanny._ I'm just Luke; the weird Uncle that you happened to meet when you were thirteen." The words  _I already_ _ **have**_ _a companion_ don't quite make it out of his mouth, and he makes himself focus. Thirteen year old Ben  _appreciates_ the apparent sincerity of Luke's words, even believes it for a moment, "I'm just here to make everyone's lives a little bit easier; from the sheer looks of it, you all need it anyway."  _That's an extreme understatement._ He can ask about Bestellung; he can ask about the castle; he can ask why  _sometimes_ it seems that there whispers of secrets and  _omens_ fluttering in the air; he can ask why he's forbidden to enter certain rooms; he can ask  _so much_ to the brother of his deceased mother, the Late Queen Leia. As Ben thinks it over,  _eyes swimming with all the possibilities,_ his brown eyes inadvertently land on Luke's necklace.

"Alright… why don't you dress the part?"

Luke blinks, "Excuse me?"

Ben gestures him with a now empty hand, making a vague gesture. He tries this time to not be  _that_ much of a brat; if he's stuck with the old man, then, well… might as well make the most of it. "You're..."  _Lord Vader's_ _ **son**_ _._  "…royalty. Why hide behind such unfit clothes? I could only tell your of royal blood because of that jewel," he juts his chin, gesturing to the necklace. The only immediate response he gets from his uncle is an indiscernible stare, almost as if he's  _studying_ him, trying to judge him and Ben normally loathes that gaze,  _because he's seen it so many times._ He's more than surprised when Luke touches his necklace almost  _hesitantly_ , like he's afraid to even look at it.

"This… this was a gift from," Ben could swear in that moment that Luke's breath  _hitches_ in his throat against his will, but he continues on as if nothing "… the previous King." He think he's going to continue about the diamond, seeing it now more exposed he can tell the rock is  _at the very least magnificent._  That would be an understatement; it's almost  _divine_ and absolutely forbidden in the way the blue hues of the cut sides nearly  _fade_ into transparency, like water. But much to his disappointment, as if some spell is broken, Luke pushes the gem behind layers of his gray, thick, tunic. "Not any more royalty than Han is, I'm afraid," he shrugs, and Ben narrows his eyes at the sheer  _audacity._ "The title of  _Prince_ doesn't exactly befit someone of my age, kid; passing the age of marriage kind of annuls the whole thing."

"But you  _still_ have noble blood in you." Ben doesn't know at  _what_ moment he has stepped forward, but not it's as if he's the one invading his uncle's personal space. His voice comes out almost demanding,  _pleading._ "That  _has_ to count for something."

Luke shifts his weight, chin up as if closing himself off to the boy, and crosses his arms. "What would be the significance? It's not like—" he looks like he had been going to say something else, and Ben unconsciously leaning forward as if to hear some forbidden secret. "It's not like it's a matter that concerns you."  _But it has_ _ **everything**_ _to do with me,_ Ben wants to scream out, but his jaw sets instead, and he looks absolutely  _bitter_. Luke takes a moment to regard him, before he himself turns away as if  _resented._ _As if he knows_ _ **exactly**_ _what Ben is feeling._ Finally, he turns to face him again, "Ben… you needn't walk in the path of some dead title; you're not  _just_ a prince, you're—"

And before he can stop himself, Ben has already spilled the poison.  _"But I_ _ **need**_ _to be!"_ The wind howls in the dead beat of silence; he's huffing and puffing and his eyes  _burn._ Luke says nothing, merely observing his nephew as one would a falling comrade, his own eyes suddenly wide and  _wet and_ _knowing_ _._ "I  _need_ to be; you think  _he_ pays attention to me otherwise?" he doesn't need to specify who  _he_ is. "You think  _anyone_ here in this castle  _look_ at me with something else other than contempt? I've been  _convicted_ for things I never even  _did_ ; how am I supposed to fix it, how am I supposed to be  _better, when I'm never even given a chance?!"_ Ben hadn't meant to spill everything he'd pent up over the years,  _and even then_ , he still holds  _so much_  in him, but it's what he  _feels_ right now; ashamed, he bows his head,  _but he refuses_ to cry. "I want to be  _better_ ; I want to be  _King_ , like he was. He was never afraid, he never  _backed down;_ he was  _respected_ by his people, inspired  _awe_   _and power—"_ and part of Ben  _knows_ that's a blatant lie; he's  _seen_ the flashes of fear, of  _trepidation_ whenever Vader was mentioned; but Ben  _needs_ to hang onto the thread that he was something  _grand and wonderful._

That thread  _snaps_  with his uncle's gaze. "Kid..." He doesn't look at him with pity; he looks at him like he… like he  _understands._  And that makes the next lines more confusing than ever, "Lord Vader wasn't  _respected..._

—he was  _feared_."

**( &. )**

It's only been  _three weeks_  and already the boy feels like he's losing his  _mind._

Having his Uncle as his shadow; as his so called  _Advisor_ had a lot of benefits, much to Ben's surprise. True to his word, Luke didn't treat him like a child; he never interfered with Ben's training, but perhaps that was because Hux had to play a little nicer when the Keeper of the King's Conscience was watching. Luke always maintained busy with, presumably, royal affairs in his own study just a couple floors below; Ben had thought he had all but disappeared after their talk, yet those assumptions were quickly proven wrong when he had spotted Luke walking around the corner or outside the royal garden beside his father. He also seemed just within reach whenever Ben needed anything at all. It felt kind of…  _nice_ to have someone reliable around, but also a little unsettling. It also had a lot of…  _drawbacks._ For one, though he still had his beloved privacy within his chambers and his training, it seemed that whenever he  _did_ see him, Luke would breathe down his neck intensely. Ben  _used_ to go into Vader's hidden study; his own safe haven, and he can't even go to it anymore. He doesn't want Luke to find out he's  _been_ there; and he's been getting anxious as the days pass. Ben was never too interested in the library that his father had, save for the readings of his kingdom's history he'd take to Vader's study. The most he could do was probably go outside, which at this age he still didn't want to do.

But he  _refuses_ to dwell on Luke's words.

He finds that his gazes lands towards the sky. All he feels when he sees stars and the moon and the midnight hue of the night is an underlying  _gut-wrenching_ sensation that lies beneath his core; if there was anything at all that Ben had picked up from being in Vader's study so many times, it was that once upon the time the man had been alive, he had been irrevocably obsessed with  _stars, the skies and the_ _ **moon**_ _;_ Ben didn't understand his fixation, but he  _wanted_ to, and so he found himself looking out the windows and yearning to name each and every cluster of stars the his eyes came across from behind the sheer curtains of his bedroom, sometimes for hours at a time, just laying down and staring out. Vader kept very vague,  _very obscure,_ written records for his own personal use; for these past couple of years, yet Ben only sat in Vader's study once he'd found it, fascinated and  _awe-struck_ ; it brought him comfort and absolute  _joy_ that he was able to spend time here. He liked to pretend that he was waiting for his Grandfather to arrive, only relying on whatever imaginative figure he had of him. He never once touched the books, the records the parchments that were neatly stacked all the way on top,  _not the personal ones,_ save for the blank parchment he tore a hole into when he saw Rey again.  _Rey…_ Even now, his thoughts  _still_ go to that little girl. He doesn't want Luke to find out about her, of all things. And yet, this is how his convoluted thoughts go back to her; it never fails, but he simply doesn't have the genuine negative emotions in his mind,  _in his lonely heart,_ to really feel annoyed. Frustrated and annoyed at Luke, yes;  _immensely;_ for taking up his space, for being an annoying presence, for seemingly wanting to pry into Ben's mind, for being  _nice_ and  _genuine_ _._ But not with her; never with the little girl, even if she didn't appear to him when he "didn't" want her to, or even when she would inadvertently disturb him in ways that only a three year old could. It's well past the stroke of midnight when she finds him again, somehow worming herself to him like fruit to a tree. Ben couldn't get a wink of sleep, a tightened ball in the back of his throat that has lasted him  _days_ wouldn't let him, and the tangled,  _foreboding_ possibilities of his future, of his  _life_ let him even less. He's been in an upright position for the last five hours, and this…  _this is how she finds him_ ; with sullen, tired eyes and messy, unwashed black tendrils and hunched getting-too-broad-for-his-still-lanky-mid-section shoulders, looking pathetic and melancholic as he ever could have.

Ben only realizes she's there when he feels small, warm, pudgy fingers interlacing with his; his  _very first instinct_ is to flinch, but much to his despondent surprise, he doesn't. He doesn't know in which moment he decides to squeeze her fingers,  _like a crutch,_ but it takes him even longer to finally turn to face her. Perhaps he expects bright eyes locking into his, or maybe even tears; maybe she's just seeking comfort because he's all she really knows when it comes to this type of thing, at least he  _thinks_ so. With foreboding worming throughout his body, he realizes that he knows next to nothing about her; or rather,  _nothing at all_ really. He dissuades his thoughts and  _yet again_ , he's immediately proven wrong when he finds that she's looking out the window and chewing on the pair of golden dice. How Ben wishes he could be as oblivious as her; he tries to slip his hand away so he can wipe  _a god-forsaken_ _ **traitorous**_ _tear welling up in his eye_ — but Rey doesn't let him, and as forcefully as she can, grabs his long, slipping fingers. He looks to her with a raised eyebrow, and he really  _tries_ to not take in how the white, pale moonlight brightens her little face or whitens her cheeks and eyelashes; she looks like a little angel painted on his father's too-bright-and-happy library of his, and all too suddenly, his thoughts take a harsh turn when his mind fills with the familiar ring:  _Is she_ _ **real**_ _?_ He doesn't want to think about that. He doesn't want to think about  _any of it._ So he does what he's always done; he pretends that she's a peasant child from some neighboring kingdom's territory and she sneaks in the castle and to his room, because that's what mischievous children do.  _He_ _ **knows**_ _that makes absolute_ _ **no**_ _sense whatsoever—_  But…  _—as his throat_ _ **clenches**_ _and the swell grows thrice it's size-_ it's getting harder and harder to ignore his own delusions the older he grows.  _Ignorance is absolute_ _ **bliss.**_

"Hey," he tugs on her fingers, hoping to take her attention away from the dice, "Why aren't you sleeping? It's well past your bed-time," he tugs again, gently. Rey only shrugs, clearly disinterested in Ben's inquiry; but she doesn't let go, and she doesn't let  _him_ let go of her fingers either, hooking them with a strength that believes a child like her shouldn't even have. "Stop chewing on that; you'll ruin your teeth." She turns away preparing herself in case he decides to take them. Ben sighs and shakes his head. "What are you  _doing_ here, anyway?" he whispers; and even if he doesn't want to  _admit_ it, that question isn't directed to her. Perhaps Luke, perhaps the King, or perhaps even himself. But never her.

But Rey answers him, anyway. "I'unno."

He tries to free his fingers again; it doesn't even work marginally. "Has anyone  _hurt_ you Rey? Are you okay?" He tries to take in her exposed skin to find any bruises or marks and his eyes roam over her dirty clothes; they hardly seemed to be changed, and he has the sudden urge to summon his tailor. He's never met the man, but Ben is  _sure_ he has a tailor  _somewhere._ Plenty, probably. She shakes her head; her attention is not so expendable that she can't even afford to look at him. He tries to tug again, overcome by a very sudden urge to start moving about; every second feeling like the walls are closing in on him, like the room is getting  _smaller_ and he has an idea  _why_  because the  _last_ time they were in such a similar situation, he'd only been  _ten years old and he'd been about to_ _ **die…**_ _or was he_ _ **running**_ _and then he slipped and—_

"You're sad; I  _heard_. You're  _sad._ You  _cry_ _and scream_ _._ " She speaks in such an innocent manner and so nonchalantly, but Ben can't help the chill that runs up his spine when she says those words. He hasn't… he hasn't  _cried_ in front of her in… well,  _never._ Rey does not share his same foreboding horror; far from it, she doesn't even turn to him, even now, and  _logically_ Ben  _knows_ that she obviously  _doesn't_ because she doesn't  _know_ any better. "You hold hands when you're sad. When the big black bird comes, I hold hands."... _what?_ Perhaps his confusion is all too evident even for a child like her, because Rey tilts her head at him. "Big bird. Big black bird." She repeats and probably think she's helping explain, but the more she speaks the more confused he becomes. "He comes. He comes sometimes."  _Bird?_ His  _mask?_ Detriment floods his core, and he wonders  _if he's become a source for nightmares that he doesn't even know she has; does she even remember_ _the mask?_  Guilt overwhelms him like a river.

It's all too hard to swallow in that moment. "Rey, I—" But Ben doesn't get the chance to finish, because her eyes peer to something  _beyond_ him; to his window, and he looks on with confusion and awe and  _fascination_ as her eyes widen with sheer surprise at something _._ She takes a few steps forward, and when it seems like his fingers will slip from hers, she  _pulls._ Ben blinks and he has no choice but to follow her. She stands on her toes, peering through the foggy window pane and squints her eyes, her other fingers tangled with the golden thread of the dice that she always seems to have on her person. "What is it _?"_  Okay, this…  _this is good._ This is normal, this is  _usual_ ; for her to pop out of nowhere at random times and to bombard him with questions and shenanigans that have him sleeping peacefully at the end of a long day. But when Ben tries to spot to whatever she's frantically pointing at. He sees nothing. He doesn't think much of it, at first, squinting through the darkness of the night in an attempt to humor her little imaginative streak. "Oh,  _yeahh_ ; mm, I see it. What is it?" His gaze doesn't leave her messy, choppy hair, but he pretends to look out the window and see  _something_ just for her sake. She's pointing at the same place, her own eyes wide and her face is one of—

 _..._ _horror_ _._ Her lips are quivering.

His body tenses at that realization, and Ben immediately hunches behind her to get at her eye level. "Ben…  _Ben_  it's the  _giant bird_." It's a fascinating thing to see; she's  _terrified_ , but almost as if she's  _rooted_ to the spot, she doesn't shrink away, but rather tries  _to get a better look_. Ben does too, but he sees nothing beyond dark trees and foggy clouds and the now heavy rain. There's still nothing, still darkness and black and  _nothing_. Rey practically hits the glass with a forceful finger, and Ben non-verbally reprimands her by holding her hand to prevent any harm. "It's  _black_." He swallows and he finds that with each second that passes, he holds an arm over her little frame, preventing her from going further. He wouldn't take her so seriously… yet… he  _also_ feels terrified. It makes his hackles  _rise_ from sheer will to survive,  _to get away_ ; but he doesn't want to give her an excuse to have her panic even more. He has to be  _strong_ ; he's a  _prince,_ a  _future King._ He's just being delusional; he's just being caught up with her paranoia. Everything is  _fine;_ it's just the guilt that he's  _hurt her_ and  _caused her harm_ and—

He wants to ask her how long she's been having nightmares; how  _often_ this supposed bird has visited her, but he doesn't in this moment. "Rey, there's  _nothing_ there. You're going to be just—" Rey lets out a near blood curdling scream, and she starts to cry, cowering into his hold and what she says next has him nearly paralyzed.

"It's the  _bird_ ;  _black_ _ **bird**_ _, Ben!"_

The sudden mass of black that lands in his field of vision has him almost retching.

There's a hunched cloaked figure in the middle of the pouring rain. It hadn't been  _there_ before. It's black and he sees  _ **red**_ _. Red_ _light_   _from the center of his cloak; a necklace_ _. A_ _plague mask pointing out from beneath the hood._ His eyes widen; the hunched figure slowly stands, a menacing thing that could easily tower the highest tree they could own, even seen from up here. The creature stands tall and grand, like Death.  _"Grandfather?"_ Ben shakily lets out a soft whisper.

And then, the mask turns to him sharply, as if it hears him.

Ben practically jumps back. They clutch each other as if they're hanging on to dear life; Rey's crying into his chest and she keeps pushing into him, as if willing herself to disappear. Ben's throat and chest constrict in fear, but his eyes are peeled open for any sign of the oncoming danger. His teeth clatter, and his jaw hurts from the sheer strength he clamps onto them to keep them from being a hindrance. He leans his head forward, keeping the little girl close,  _shielding her away from the sight_.  _So that she doesn't have to see what he's seeing._ Echoes of the wind wheeze through the glass pane of the window and he  _should_ back away; he should  _leave_. Rey lets out another cry, muffled and distorted because of his shirt and he tears his gaze away for  _just a second before he looks up again and—_

The figure is gone.

It goes silent. For just a moment. Rey pauses her shrieking sob and she speaks so  _muffled_ and  _low_ that he almost misses her words:

" _He's getting closer..."_

His heart thunders in his ears, and perspire dampens his forehead. But it doesn't matter; he needs to keep  _her_ safe. It's quiet and all he forces himself to come to his senses until he can focus on the rain. It's fine; everything is  _fine_. It's gone.  _It's gone._ But then there's a monstrous  _growl_ that reverberates throughout the entire room and their chests.

The window breaks with a streak of blood-red light and a closed, black fist.

Ben and Rey let out a shrieking scream as they fall backwards. Ben doesn't once let her go, only hanging onto her tighter; she's crying,  _yelling in his ear in panic._ And he doesn't even spare a  _glance_.  _He runs._ Ignoring Rey's screams, he cradles her as he dashes through and practically breaks his shoulder rushing through the door. His free hand is drenched is sweat, but he manages to clutch the handle and pull the door open; the struggle feels familiar, not at all new. But this time? He won't break down on his knees; not with Rey in his arms. He runs with purpose through the labyrinth of his kingdom's halls even as his lungs burn and his head begins to feel light. He  _hears_ heavy breathing as if the creature is right behind him; he doesn't dare to look back, and he forces himself not to. The boy almost trips, and in his physically strenuous effort to  _not_ trip, he hears the inadvertent  _crack_ of bone; his ankle and he falls to the ground. He continues on to embrace Rey, never letting go. His eyes peer through the darkness, near face to face with a plague mask with scorching red slits for eyes.

But he refuses…  _h_ _e refuses to be_ _ **weak.**_

So Ben holds out a hand, palm open, eyes wide-

— _and he screams a warrior's cry._

And then, absolute darkness.

**( &. )**

_**NEXT SEGMENT: every suppressed sob feeds the monster inside** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Y'all ever NOPED the hell out of something so hard? Because I did.
> 
> Anyway; this chapter had to be cut in half because otherwise the next update wouldn't have come until next month or something. Good news is that the next chapter is pretty much fully outlined, so the update should come much sooner. This arc is dragging on for longer than I planned. Eugh.


End file.
